He giveth power to the faint; and to them that have no might he increaseth strength.—ISA. xl, 29.

TWO days before Christmas—five o'clock in the afternoon—a bright fire—the curtains drawn—the room as still as if no human heart beat within it. But Mrs. Latimer was there alone, yet not alone; for the "unseen influence," as her sister called it, to which she had bent both heart and knee, was present. "The Comforter" had vouchsafed sweet communion with her spirit, and been a very present help in an hour of temptation to depression and fear.

She had been thinking of her own weakness, of failures to do many things as she wished to do them, of the responsibilities laid upon her, of the possibility of making some fatal mistake in the training of her young immortal charge; and for a little while, she had felt—

"—wearied with the toil and strife, And all the needful discipline of life."

And as the tears filled her eyes, she murmured almost aloud, "Who is sufficient for these things?" A weight seemed to press down her spirit, and a load lay at her heart, and she who had been all day the cheerful guide, and encourager, and example to others, was now cast down under the self-searching probe which detected many a fault, unknown, perhaps, to any but herself, and Him to whom she desired ever to look up with clear conscience and confiding love, saying, "Thou God seest me."

But then came the whisper from heaven over the troubled soul, so sweet, so assuring, so subduing:

"My grace is sufficient for thee, for my strength is made perfect [or manifested] in weakness."

And then she remembered the psalmist's resort in the hour of need:

"When thou saidst, Seek ye my face; my heart said unto thee, Thy face, Lord, will I seek."

And she looked into that face, and beneath the mark of thorns saw nothing but love and smiles. Then, like one of her own little ones asking confidingly of her for some good thing, in implicit faith in her readiness to grant or do, she poured out her heart before her Father in heaven, and received abundant answer beyond all she asked or thought.

The painful sense of sin and failures vanished before the cleansing efficacy of the blood of Jesus Christ; unbelief fled away ashamed before the golden beam of promise with which the applying Spirit poured light and comfort into her heart:

"Fear thou not, for I am with thee: be not dismayed, for I am thy God: I will strengthen thee; yea, I will help thee;—"

And the animating motto for the banner of the Church militant seemed to inspire with new life the fainting energies of the Christian soldier, as it announced on the authority of the conquering Captain,—

"All things are possible to him who believeth."

"'As' thy days, 'so' shall thy strength be."

God's servants must not waver:

"Speak unto the children of Israel, that they go 'forward.'"

And seas of tribulation shall divide before them, and the very impediments they feared shall be walls of defense on the right hand and on the left. So was it to the typical Israel; so shall it be to every believer brought out of darkness and bondage into the light and liberty of the freedmen of the Lord. Verily it is a blessed thing to be a Christian.

And thus comforted, serenity and peace returned, and the Christian mother was herself again. This was her own quiet half hour between daylight duties and evening occupations, when it was her wont to commune with God and be still—a spiritual tonic, as it were, to restore vigor to powers taxed largely for many hours; when things that had, perhaps, assumed distorted aspects through disappointment or vexation, took their true shape and hue again, and the mental vision returned to the right point of view whence to observe and estimate the realities of life. Thus—

". . . they that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary; they shall walk, and not faint."

Then came a gentle tap at the door, and a little form stole softly into the range of the firelight.

"May we come now, mamma?" said Agnes Latimer.

"Yes, darling, you may come now; my half hour is up, and now for yours."

"But no lights yet, mamma, only that nice fire." And away she tripped with the welcome summons.

"Only the fire," and the mild, warm light of sanctified maternal love, to which the little ones knew not how much was owing of the attraction of that room, and the charm of the dear half hour with mamma before the nursery tea time.

In a few minutes, the patter of little feet, and the mingling of many voices, came pleasantly down the stairs, and mamma was again in the midst of her little flock, one on the hearth-rug, one in her lap, one squeezing into her chair, one on a footstool at her side, and all as close as possible.

"Now for a story, mamma. Now will you tell us a story?" cried two or three at once.

"Take care," said Mrs. Latimer, "or the only story I shall be able to remember will be about an old woman who lived in a shoe."

"O, the funny old woman! We know all about her; she was cross and the children were naughty," said one.

"And which of the troubles began first, do you suppose?" asked mamma.

"Never mind, mamma," said another, "we won't tell, and the story does not tell either; you are not that old woman, you know."

"Mamma shan't ever be old woman," said little Herbert, laying his head on her knee.

"Why not, dear?"

"Old women die. Poor old Mrs. Willis died," said Herbert, almost ready to cry at the idea of such a calamity as the death of his dear mother.

"But it was only her body that died, Herbert; her spirit went to be happy with the Saviour she loved so dearly, and she will never be sick or sad any more forever."

"Mamma, I should like best that we all go to heaven hand-in-hand."

"May God grant it!" said Mrs. Latimer fervently. "When the trumpet shall sound, and the Lord Jesus comes to call his people around him in resurrection glory, may we all be there to meet him hand-in-hand."

"That will be nice," said Herbert, looking up with a smile.

"But, dear Herbert, we must believe him, and love him, and serve him now, that he may not be obliged to say to us,—

"'I never knew you: depart from me—'"

"O no, he will not say that if we are his children, mamma," said Agnes.

"No, darling; but his children love him, and how are they to prove their love?"

"'If ye love me, keep my commandments.'

"Is not that it?"

"Yes, that is 'it' indeed."

"Haven't you got a story about it, mamma?"

"I must think."

"O, a story, a story!" whispered one to another. "Don't you know when she says she will think about it, she's sure to find one?"

"Well, there was once a dear little boy whose business it was to take a journey—"

"What, by himself, mamma?" asked Herbert.

"No, not quite by himself; he had fellow-travelers whom he loved, and they loved him very dearly. He set out on a fair and sunny morning, light and active as could be, and thinking of nothing but the pleasantness of all around him, and the enjoyments he should find on the way. The sun gave just the light and warmth he wanted, the scenes he looked upon were full of beauty, everybody he saw seemed kind and good, and the road he traveled was new and delightful.

"After a time, however, he found there were rough places to be got over and dangerous places to pass, such as he had been told to expect if he kept in the right road. But a kind Friend who was watching him, and to whose protection he had been commended, gently reminded him of the directions he had received, and so he went on safely.

"Many a time he heard sounds which seemed to come from places not lying just in his road, sweet music and enticing invitations to turn aside and rest and enjoy himself. And more than once he had nearly done so, when the voice of his Friend was heard in his ear, and the hand of his Friend firmly led him on, and again he made speed on his way.

"It was rather a long journey, and on, on he went. Sometimes the sun was too hot now, and sometimes not hot enough. And though the scenery was in itself much the same as at first, it had not the same charms for him, and he wondered at the pleasure of many young travelers who came laughing and leaping along beside him.

"He had found thorns in the wayside flowers too, the cause of which his Friend had explained to him, and he began to be anxious about the end of his journey. Some of his companions with whom he set out were no longer to be seen on the road, but his Friend told him they had been hastened forward, and would be at the journey's end to meet him. And finding how well that kind Friend knew all about it and that he was never at a loss for comfort, or help, or wisdom, or anything he really wanted, he gave up to him entirely, and loved him so dearly, that while walking close by his side, he forgot there was anything disagreeable to be borne, and left everything quite to his care.

"At last, one evening, he felt very tired, and lay down to rest, thinking of all the way he had come, and that perhaps there remained but a little way now to go. Presently his faithful Friend drew very close, and took his weary head to rest on his own bosom. And if any uneasy thought threatened to disturb his mind before, it was quite driven away by the sweet feeling that so dear a guardian was watching over him. So he fell asleep.

"Morning came; but O what a morning! He opened his eyes in soft and radiant light such as he had never seen before. He was refreshed by that sleep as no sleep had ever refreshed him before; he felt neither hunger nor thirst, and so happy, so full of joy. And while beginning to realize the fact that he was at his journey's end, really at home at last, he looked with rapture on the glorious scene around him.

"The first object he saw was just what he wished to see—the Friend and Companion of his way, who had called some of his servants to carry him just the last steps home, and who now smiled his sweet welcome there. And now, to his great delight, the love and gratitude which he had before constantly failed to express as he wished, poured from his affectionate heart and eloquent lips in glowing praises. Then he soon saw gathering near some of the dear fellow-travelers he had missed on the way, and some he had loved the most, all safely arrived before him, and ready to meet him in love and joy. Father, mother, brothers, sisters, all there; no shade of care, or age, or sorrow on their brows, but all beautiful and happy, and shining like the light that filled the whole illuminated palace."

"What a nice end to the story, mamma!" exclaimed Herbert, as soon as he was sure the story was ended.

"Yes, and the comfort is, that it is the very end. There is no more to tell about sadness, or pain, or growing old or helpless, or parting, or mourning; for the days of sorrow were ended, and there was no more sin."

"Ah! Mamma, now I see all about it," cried Agnes.

"What do you see, dear?"

"The journey of life, mamma. Jesus is the faithful Friend, and heaven is the beautiful home."

"What, and the going to sleep, was that dying?" said Herbert.

"Yes, darling, it is called in the Bible 'falling asleep.' My Herbert is not afraid to go to sleep, is he?"

"O no, mamma; if it is only like that, it doesn't matter."

"It is like that to the children of God, to believers in Jesus. He died to take away all that made death terrible to them, and now they only lay their heads by faith on his bosom, and fall asleep, and awake again to find him welcoming them to glory. But though we have been talking of dying, and it is very happy to have right thoughts about it, we are all on life's journey yet, and must do what we can to help and cheer one another, and try to keep very close to our best Friend."

Presently voices were heard at the door, and out rushed the whole party to welcome papa and brothers from the examinations which terminated the half year's hard work, and ushered in the holidays. Vain would be the effort of chronicler's skill to bring any satisfactory information out of the torrent of tongues that ensued.

It appeared at last, however, that Philip and Ernest were among the boys honored by certificates of merit, written in truthful simplicity by their wise master, and more gratifying to their parents than a dozen prizes, for they told of industry and moral conduct and general advancement, without any of the emulations and heart-burnings which to often accompany concentrated efforts for one or two costly rewards.

During subsequent happy days, there were holiday schemes to be discussed, presents to be distributed, books to be read and enjoyed together, the missionary box to be opened, and the family offerings since New Year's day to be disclosed; and kindness as shown toward those who were less favored than themselves, in many little ways of self-denying usefulness. Mr. Latimer detested the sentimentality which only sighs and talks, and made his children understand that where there is reason and feeling, there should be wise decision about what is to be done, and prompt activity to do it whenever opportunity offers to test the sincerity of Christian sympathy.

One morning, Mrs. Latimer was sitting with her merry boys and girls around her, all uttering in her presence just what they would have said in her absence, and continually appealing to her for an opinion or advice, when Mrs. Fielding was announced. Her children's party was to be given, and she came to try once more if she could not induce her sister to allow their cousins to join it.

"Now they were growing up so fast," she said, "it was only kind to offer them some enjoyment, and it could not be supposed that Marion would always have her own way with them."

So she came to see how things were going on, and really with a kind, though mistaken feeling for the children, who all turned inquiring looks upon their mother when the request was made.

"Ah!" said Mrs. Fielding, triumphantly. "I see they will all like to come."

"Perhaps so," said Mrs. Latimer, looking kindly upon them in return; "but when they know that I feel it right to decline your kindness for them, I hope they will not be very seriously disappointed."

"O Marion, indeed you must not decline. Let them speak for themselves, and I am sure they will tell you how good and dutiful they will be, if you allow them this one little indulgence."

"We have a great many indulgences, aunt," said Agnes, feeling as if something were implied which was untrue, and that her mother's judgment was called in question.

For a moment Mrs. Latimer hesitated what course to pursue. She must be justified to her children, before whom the invitation had been given, and she must not expect to propitiate a sister whose views were so opposed to her own. As for the party, there could be no doubt about the kind, now that Blanche and Gertrude were pronounced the most graceful dancers in Miss Lightfoot's class.

"The young Thornhills are all coming," said Mrs. Fielding, following up her supposed advantage; "their kind mamma was beset the moment the subject was mentioned, and it was quite out of her power to refuse such a united petition."

"I am not hesitating between consent or refusal, dear Helen," said Mrs. Latimer, gravely; "and my children know that entreaties would never win what my judgment obliged me to deny them. But as you have informed them of your invitation, you compel me to give them my reasons for declining it, since they are old enough to understand them."

"You inflict a general disappointment, Marion," said Mrs. Fielding, angrily, "and there are no real reasons for it."

"Now that you know my decision, dear children," said Mrs. Latimer, "suppose you go and prepare for your walk. Papa will meet us punctually, I have no doubt."

"And our skates, mamma; don't you think we may want them?"

"Yes, take them with you; and if the ice prove safe at S— meadows, you will have to escort your sisters and me across in due style."

"Come along, girls, we shall have capital fun;" and then turning suddenly to wish their aunt "good morning," the whole party disappeared for the necessary equipment, the recent invitation apparently forgotten, and Mrs. Fielding somewhat surprised and disconcerted.

"And do you suppose, Marion, that you can always keep those young spirits in subjection?" she asked. "They will burst the barrier some day, and their plunge into dissipation may be the more fatal for present restraints."

"I trust not," said Marion; "but whatever the event, nothing can excuse me from the conscientious discharge of known duty."

"What is it you fear? They need not dance, or do anything you disapprove."

"They cannot dance, as you know; and would it be consistent to forbid what the world calls an accomplishment, and then send them where it is displayed in its most attractive form?"

"Well, you can soon correct that mistake; they are not too old to learn."

"It is no mistake, Helen, but a deliberate decision which nothing can ever make me regret. It seems to me a marvelous infatuation to instruct a child in what I should not wish to be enjoyed in maturer years."

"But that is just what our friend Mrs. Thornhill is doing, and she does not expect her daughters to be always dancing when they are grown-up. I shall not be surprised if they even persuade her to let them have a ball some day."

"'Whatsoever a man soweth that shall he also reap,'" said Marion. "If we sow to folly and temptation, I cannot see what right we have to expect to reap sense and self-denial. I am not alluding to you, Helen, because you are professedly training your children for the admiration of the world. But those who have a different aim should not be guided by your views, nor influenced by your fears."

"I really think, Marion, that I shall take as much alarm at your puritanical notions as you manifest at my rational ones, and keep my children quite out of your way."

"I assure you, dear Helen, I have far less fear of your consistent worldliness, than of Mrs. Thornhill's grievous mixture of religion and the world. There is less risk from decision than from vacillation and infirmity of purpose. I know in your heart, Helen, you do not despise me for trying to be consistent."

"No, Marion, I dare not despise you, though you vex and grieve me so much. I only want you to be a little more like other people, and to live as if you were in a world of human beings, and not among spirits of perfection."

"And I only want you, dear sister, to live more like an immortal creature, to whom God and eternity are not unmeaning words. O Helen, what are you doing for those children you love so dearly, toward counteracting the evil natural to them, and teaching them how they may be saved? Do you ever seriously think of the value of their souls, and the sacred trust for which you must one day account?"

"I think there is quite time enough to damp their enjoyment by such thoughts, without prematurely forcing them on their attention."

"Did you see any present enjoyment damped just now?" asked Mrs. Latimer, knowing that her sister must have seen in the children who had left the room a practical refutation of such fears.

"Well, I am quite sure my young party would never like your discipline; but there is a wonderful difference in the dispositions of children certainly."

"Very true; but in one respect there is no difference; and as one event must happen to all, and the greatest of blessings is equally suitable to all, are we not neglecting a very solemn duty in keeping such truths out of sight? Besides, it is a fact, that in securing a good hope for the future life through the merits and mercy of Christ, we are securing meanwhile the most substantial happiness in the present one. There is no one so really happy as he who has the Almighty God for his Father and Friend now; and I covet nothing for my children in comparison with the assurance of this immeasurable blessing. Be advised, dear Helen, and think more of such happiness for yours."

"Very pleasant, doubtless, Marion, to be such an enthusiast," said Mrs. Fielding, "though I cannot see what it has to do with the children's party. So I must fill up our numbers with those who will appreciate a little earthly pleasure more than my nephews and nieces seem to do."

But Mrs. Latimer had no objection to a children's party, as was made evident shortly after the juvenile fête at Mr. Fielding's.

It was Philip's birthday, and parental and fraternal love was ready with offerings of remembrance, and affectionate congratulations on the happy fact of his "creation and preservation," mingled with warm wishes that he might enjoy "all the blessings of this life."

"May God bless my dear boy," said his father tenderly, "and make his life a blessing to himself and all connected with him."

"And teach him, in order that it may be so, that those who would live happily must not live unto themselves, but unto Him who died for them and rose again," said his mother, as she tenderly kissed him.

Before his place at the breakfast table stood a valuable gift in the form of a box of beautiful views for his magic lantern, which Philip had long wished to possess, and toward which he had saved a portion of his allowance. But as no proposed self-indulgence was expected to interfere with contributions toward lawful claims on liberality, this wish by means of savings was yet a long way off accomplishment. There they were, however, ready to add to the pleasures of the evening, when at an early hour carriage after carriage set down its youthful burden at Mr. Latimer's door.

It is true there was not the mimicry of more stately assemblies which distinguished the young Fieldings' entertainment. But hospitality, if less costly, was dispensed with equal liberality, and spread with equal taste; the lights were as brilliant, the evergreens as ornamental, and the rooms as gay with smiles and pleasure, and perhaps a good deal more noisy with frolic and fun.

But Mr. and Mrs. Latimer did not provide all this, and then leave the young party completely to themselves, under the oft-made mistake that children enjoy themselves best alone. They knew that what man does not use for good, Satan will use for evil; and that even in pleasing and amusing children, Christian love and principle may spread their sanctifying influence over the means, and prevent them from degenerating into mere frivolity and idleness, or the causes of unamiable contention.

They knew, too, that none but very shy or very ill-disposed children care to have their romps and games exclusively to themselves, in which case the bashful and timid need encouragement and protection, and the rude and naughty need watchful checks. But usually all enjoy most the amusements in which older companions unite; and the condescension, if such it be, is well repaid in the greater happiness conferred, and many possible mischiefs hindered.

When the exuberance of youthful spirits had somewhat subsided over many spirited games involving bodily exercise or mental skill, a change was proposed from brilliant light to complete darkness. And Mrs. Latimer leading the way, arranged her youthful train according to their varying height before the great screen, on the other side of which papa and his boys were ready with their preparations. And after the darkness, a superb eastern city burst upon their delighted view, and being one far-famed in ancient times, Mr. Latimer's well-stored mind was largely taxed to supply history, geography, and anecdote.

Then gorgeous palaces gradually disappeared, lovely gardens and ornamental waters withered and dried away, and a dreary desert spread over the scene, with here and there a mighty fragment of huge masonry, all that now marks the spot where that noble city stood. A few words on Divine prophecy and its inevitable fulfillment were appropriately introduced.

The next scene was an Indian encampment, or rather town, if the home of heathen savages be worthy of the name. There was the council fire, the circle of warrior chiefs, and men of barbarous renown; there were women and children assembled round the wretched captive about to be tortured to death; and all the primitive appliances of heathen life in its most original form appeared around. Such was untutored man, and terrible his need.

A change passes over the scene. The forest has retired to form the tall boundary of a great clearing; the wigwams give place to cottages and farms, the Indian children are going into school, the men are busy at manly occupations, the women in domestic duties. A neat little building, with its small spire, proclaims that Christian meetings and one sacred day are known here now. The removal of a slide reveals the cause of this happy change, and behold! a well-known Christian missionary stands amid his attentive flock. The Gospel of the grace of God, with his Spirit's irresistible power, has made all the difference. And the contrast could not but impress, at least for the time, the value and claims of the mission cause on the minds of the young spectators.

Another scene represented an old English homestead. A young, strong man is bidding farewell to home, a stout stick across his shoulder supporting his all of earthly goods, except the last gift of love, a little Bible, which his father, looking upward the while as if invoking God's blessing, is placing in his hand; other forms are in the distance looking their last upon the departing one.

Gradually the cottage farm, the meadow and stream, the rural lane, and mossy banks, and straggling oaks of the old familiar spot, dim and dissolve into confusion. And the thick shade of pines darting up to the clear blue sky denote of the change to the far-off land of the West. Hero, at the foot of a tree, with his ax by his side, sits the young adventurer, reading that precious Bible.

Mr. Latimer here spoke in cheerful tones of "the blessing that maketh rich," of "seeking first the kingdom of God, and his righteousness," of the reward of industry and perseverance. And then came a practical illustration of them all in the downfall and use of that forest timber, which formed the substantial and ornamented log-house and out-buildings of a farm, which took its place where a garden and livestock, and many symptoms of more than common care and cultivation, are now the property of the young emigrant. And there he stands himself in the midst of his little estate, gazing with apparent eagerness and interest along the road which leads in a long line through the uncleared forest.

The withdrawal of a slide or two presently reveals the whole reunited family, aged parents, young wife, and happy children, with clasped hands and grateful looks giving thanks to Him who has blessed the efforts to provide such a home, when no longer able to retain their own in the mother country.

At the risk of tediousness, the contrasting scene must also be told. Another parting. Another youth, strong and able as the former, is leaving home; he promises great things, for he is making haste to be rich, and he seems to be going, not because there is positive need, but because things do not go fast enough to please him in the dull toils of daily industry. So, as the speediest means of attaining his ends, behold him busy, amid many like himself, in the rocky defiles of the gold region, working and picking, and straining and treasuring the tempting dust or the richer nugget, amid discomfort and sin, and "covetousness which is idolatry."

The change is to a dreary plain, at evening time. The successful gold-seeker, wasted and worn by toil and excesses, yet anxious to secure his treasure, lies faint and exhausted on the ground, his bag of gold clasped tenaciously against his pale, hollow cheek. Two men of ferocious and profligate aspect, lately his companions, bend over him, and one is attempting to withdraw the idolized gold. It was easy to imagine their success by any means that might occur to them, and the melancholy end of the disappointed man.

"'What is a man profited,' said Mr. Latimer, 'if he gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?'

"'We brought nothing into the world, and . . . can carry nothing out of it.'

"'Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth, where moth and rust doth corrupt, and where thieves break through and steal: But lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust doth corrupt, and where thieves do not break through nor steal: For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.'"

Thus while entertaining the mind, and pleasing the eye, an effort was made to rivet a useful lesson on the heart, and to connect a happy evening with remembrances that might benefit and instruct.

Perhaps it might not be uninteresting to peep into the two families on the mornings subsequent to the two entertainments. The young Latimers rose at their usual hour, and proceeded as usual with their several occupations. No one yawned over the morning chapter, or seemed fretful from exhaustion, consequent on prolonged excitement. Cheerful countenances and pleasant tempers met around the breakfast table, and, with much to recall with pleasure, there was nothing to remember with regret.

Their cousins rose very late, rather indignant at the information that it was late, wondering how anybody presumed to suppose that young people who had been up until after midnight, and had danced so much, could be fit for anything the next day. They yawned every five minutes, protested they were "tired to death," and had not slept at all; whispered together about various young friends, their dress and their manners; wondered how many invitations would arrive in return for such an elegant entertainment; and counted up several times the number of sixpences they had won at the round game at cards, to which they had been prevailed on to sit down for a rest during an interval in the dance, and for which papa had liberally provided the requisite funds for all who chose to try what he called their "luck."

When Mrs. Fielding, who had the most reason to be tired, with a languid and jaded air looked in upon them to say, in as complacent and condescending a tone as she could assume, that she hoped her dear girls would repay her by future good conduct for the great pleasures and indulgences of the previous day, she felt shocked at the drowsy, querulous faces that met her gaze, and which the acknowledgment of her kindness could scarcely rouse into temporary good-humor.