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not these night walks lead to much mischief?” This is the great difficulty that meets you, and which will occur to the mind of the careful mother. It would be insuperable, if you could not contrive to send them together, or keep a check upon them by observing the time of their arrival and departure, and requiring the mothers to do the same. But it is far better to avoid all scandal and danger about the class by paying some steady and elderly woman to accompany them to and fro, thus guarding them from all risk, even though a lion were to cross their path in the shape of an impudent boy. We have found this plan far the safest and most discreet.

Although you preside yourself, and teach the reading, writing, and arithmetic, you will find that it is impossible to instruct them by yourself in all the necessary branches of needle-work, even though you are an adept in the art. For you must bear in mind that it is as young women, not as children, that they should practice needle-work. To learn to prepare their own work, to cut out by patterns, to make their own gowns, trim their own bonnets, and make their own caps, should all follow in turn. And for this you will need a mistress who understands dress-making, and who is also a good plain-worker. In the classes which we have watched, a village dressmaker gladly undertook to instruct them in needle-work two nights for two hours at a time, and thought herself well paid at a shilling a week. To meet this the class should not be entirely free, but each girl should pay a half-penny or penny a week. They will not be backward in paying; and will, besides, prize the advantages still more than if they were admitted without payment. To help them to earn something in their spare time, you may permit those who are attentive to carry away with them work to do at home, for which they will receive payment. It is better to settle for them what they are to do, to give them old things to cut out and practise upon at the lesson, and then to provide something new to take away with them.

If there is a difficulty in procuring sufficient work, you could permit them to bring new gowns, or new linen to make up for themselves, but in this case they will not earn anything. Calico and print bought for them to make into shirts, shifts, frocks, and gowns, then sold to them or their families perhaps a little under the real price, will provide work for a long time. Part of the time you will divide between reading and writing, the latter being one of their principal ambitions. But whether they read, write, or sew, it cannot be too often repeated that we must strive to drive out by new interests, the evil spirits of idleness, gossip, and craving after excitement. Watch over their varied minds and dispositions. You will have the more opportunity of so doing when they are seated round the long, well-lighted table, heaped with work, slates, books, and pictures, and are enjoying the warmth of the fire, and

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the pleasant sociable society. As you read to them some well-chosen story -it should not be always a grave one-or what they like even better, as you make them read in turn one of Mrs. Sewell's tales in verse, you will see their faces relax, and you will do well to watch the different comments upon it. You will succeed at last in putting them at their ease, and though you must put a stop to a tendency to whisper gossip, you will rejoice to hear the merry laugh, or to see the well-pleased delight in what they are doing. To direct their thoughts at home, let them have the use of some good, cheap magazines, with pictures, and short easy reading in them, such as the “Parish Magazine," " Penny Post," " Medley,” or “ Children's Friend.” Though some of these are for children, yet many of your pupils can hardly read, or if at all, only easy stories. Show them also new pictures, and when the Bible reading, which should close the evening and precede prayers, begins, fix the account of what they have read in their minds by means of sacred pictures relating to it, such as Mant's, published at twopence a-piece by the Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge, or Schnorr's, published by Williams and Norgate. And when prayers are said, and the doors close upon them, are your labours for them at an end ? Nay,

You will visit their mothers, and talk to them about their daughters; you will see them by themselves, when you fancy that your private advice will be of use, or when you have to warn or reprove them. You will busy yourself in finding places for those whom you can recommend, and will send them to service with rules and good advice written out for their use, and with, at least, a Bible and prayerbook, and you will write to them sometimes when away. When at home you will give them pleasure whenever you can, have them to tea on Christmas-eve, invite them to the school-children's feasts, and if it is a parish where concerts and lectures are held, see that they are able to go. To those who marry you will give some little present, and continue to visit and care for them as old friends.

And will these exertions for their welfare be always blessed ? Alas! no. You will have disappointment after disappointment, fall after fall, and yet must keep your heart firm and trustful through all. The first class of girls will, perhaps, after great improvement, fall into shame and disgrace at home. They marry—but you cannot notice them; they have lost their fair fame; and you have, for the sake of others, to visit them no longer, or only rarely and secretly. You look at old names in your register of those who once promised well, and whom you know now to be the worst and the wildest in the place, and you feel how, owing to neglected opportunities for reformation, seven evil spirits worse than the first enter the heart and dwell there. You will meet, too, very often with distrust and ingratitude from those who owe you most, and you will often be depressed and worried by the seeming delight of your poorer




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neighbours in exaggerating every thing that goes on wrong with the class, or in attaching scandal and gossip to the actions of the girls. How often the girls whom you thought you could safely recommend will throw up the good place which after much trouble you


procured for them, it would be difficult to say—or how often the place to which you have sent them turns out badly. Your greatest trouble will be in preparing your second class girls for respectable places, your next in finding such for them; and in both cases you must steel your heart against repeated disappointments. Then, too, in the actual management of your classes, your labour will not be light. At first, till you put it down with a firm hand, you will have repeated disrespectful messages sent by girls who are not in their places, of, "Please, m'm, Polly says she shan't come any more, as she don't like it;" or So-and-so's mother says she won't let her girl come because you did not give her a flannel petticoat, or a prize,” etc., etc. At other times all except a few choose to stay away. Your chief resource will then be to go round yourself, and look them up. It smooths the way for those who wish to return, to come back to you without shame; and it enables you to find out the real reason for their absence, whilst you prove your interest in them. Or if

you find that even this will not answer, turn out one of the chief offenders as an example. You will learn by degrees not to care so mach for great numbers in your classes, as for greater order, regularity, and deference; and though you are glad to invite all to come, you will let it be on trial at first. Perhaps your principal discouragement will be with yourself. Hasty and over anxious, you will at times find how indiscreet you have been, how wanting of real unfailing charity, how numerous your mistakes and short-comings. But though you must not build on either the love or the gratitude of your pupils as your reward, it will still meet you when you least expect it. You will find you are training yourself as well as others, and even though you should find nothing but disappointments—which is far from being the case-you will yet thank God for that peace of mind which has come upon you whilst trying to do your uttermost for these “ little ones.” only have succeeded in giving, as it were, the “cup of cold water,” but you have in no wise lost your reward.



Who was she?

It flashed upon him suddenly one evening, as he sat at his work, that he knew all about her, that is to say, who she was and where she lived. The seat in the church was sufficient to tell him. He remembered a walk of his through Raventree Dell, past the Red Pool and the quarry, where he caught sight of the big, uncanny, black and white house, said to be haunted, on his way to the Red Grange. And, as in duty bound, he knew the man, helpless through infirmity, not age, who never left his bed but for a sofa, or to be wheeled abcut in a garden chair; and who was her father, Richard Dudley, Esq., gentleman.

He had a vision of a pair of keen grey eyes, looking at him from under bushy eyebrows; of a clear-cut, bony face, sharpened by suffering, but not patient, and of a voice answering to the keen eyes, which had brought him down, startled, out of his cloud, and forced him to attend to what it said.

He had also a dim recollection of brothers and a sister; such names as Oswald, and Reggie, and Caroline were mixed up oddly in memories of that short visit. And he remembered that there was a harp in one corner of the room, concerning which, for want of something to say, he had addressed the usual query to the Miss Dudley then present, getting for answers

“No; that belongs to my sister Hester. I do not play."

Hester Dudley, then, was his one listener, the gem in all that dull setting of indifferent men and women; but how was it that he had not seen her at home?

you please, sir, you are wanted.” The curate started. He had been too much occupied to hear the preliminary knock at his door; the interruption was inopportune, and sudden surprises irritated him. Besides, the landlady had a baby in her arms, and he hated babies. Moreover, the one in question kept up a series of musical babblings of its own, which incrcased his irritation. He pushed his chair back with unnecessary noise, and asked impatiently who wanted him, and what for.

Why it's poor young Dawson, sir.” " And who is

Dawson?" “Up in Mill Lane. He was hurt on the railroad. They brought him homo last night. He's fearfully mangled, and they say he can't live, his one leg"


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There, that will do. I'll come directly.” And Ralph turned back and put a book into his pocket, with a sudden sinking of the heart. He had a misgiving that he knew this young Dawson; a mere boy, yet already notorious as a poacher and a scamp.

And now that the lad was on his deathbed they sent for him, as though, being a clergyman, he could open, at the last moment, the doors of heaven to one who had practically denied their existence all his life. The curate was bound to go, however, and do his best; and the landlady, still with her baby in her arms, stood at the door gossiping, and watched him off the premises.

He was not very long away, but when he came back it was night, and she was still there. He did not see her at first, he was walking liko blind and would have stumbled over her if she had not spoken. “ Ask your pardon, sir; is it all over?" “Over! Is what over?” " How is he, poor fellow ?” “Dying,” responded Ralph, passing on.

He went into his room and sat down, but not to his books. Short as the time was, a change had come over him since he went out on his errand, and he could not settle down at once to his usual occupation again.

He was thinking of the scene itself—of the poor crushed form, which could do nothing but clench its bony hands in anguish ; of the importunities of the mother that he, Ralph, would not let the lad die like that, with all his sins on his head. He thought of his own helplessnessof the hopeless nature of the case. He could not bring back the boy from death's door to understand his position, and the widow did not realize that her son was past all individual effort. He was puzzled how to make her understand this, and the only way which occurred to him was to read the prayer

“ for a person when there appeareth small hope of recovery."

He looked up at the close of it, and saw that the conviction had dawned upon her; that her tears fell like rain upon the boy's hand, which she was stroking caressingly.

He thought of the woman's face—he would know that again anywhere—of the whitewashed walls and the scanty furniture.

But above all, and before all, he had seen her there.

him with no suddenness—it seemed to him perfectly natural that she should be there—it was consistent with all his thoughts of her that they should so meet. It was not simply Hester Dudley who was there, but his idealized reality; the intellect to which his sermons appealed; the unseen sympathy which heard his aspirations in them.

Consistent too with all his thoughts of her, it was that the mother should speak to her as to an old friend, and should bid God bless her when she went away. But it was not consistent, not natural, that the

came upon

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