"I see a spirit by thy side,
Purple-winged and eagle-eyed,
Looking like a heavenly guide."
"If he bid thee bow before
Crowned mind and nothing more,
The great idol men adore—
Though his words seem true and wise,
Soul, I say to thee, Arise!
He is a demon in disguise."

"PRISCILLA! Priscilla!" The name was repeated again and again, and yet no response was given; indeed the person so addressed seemed not to hear the speaker, if one could judge by the far-away, absorbed look of her eyes, as she stood at an open window with her arm round a curly-headed boy of some three or four years old.

The name seemed as if it ought to have belonged to some grown-up lady, and was suggestive of a Puritan maiden. And so, when at last the one thus addressed was roused to attention, and turned round saying, "Yes, Miss Vernon; what is it?" One did feel surprised to see that the owner of the name was a young girl of only some fifteen years. She was dressed, as was also the child by her side, in deep mourning; and a close observer would have seen that her large, thoughtful, gray eyes were filled with tears, which she was striving to keep from falling.

Her brown hair—the sort of brown which seems always to catch and glisten between every ray of sunshine—was brushed off a finely-formed brow, and hung in natural curls round her neck. She stood now waiting to hear what the speaker required of her. The answer to her question was given in a somewhat querulous tone—

"What is it, indeed? One would think you should know that without asking. Shut the window, of course, and don't keep little Claude standing at it until he catches his death of cold. You must really try, Priscilla, to exercise your wits a little; I can't be everywhere at once, and there is no one else to manage anything now."

The girl made no reply, but turned and shut the window, and her own eyes for a moment also, as if she would have gladly shut out the spring sunshine and everything else in the world just then; for her young heart was aching, oh! so sorely, and she seemed to have but one wish—to be lying in the quiet grave where her loved mother had been laid to rest just three days before.

"No one to superintend anything now but Miss Vernon."

Oh! She knew that well. No one to care much what she did; no one ever to take her into loving arms, stroke back the sunny hair, and call her "Sissy, darling Sissy." No; from henceforth she would have to live without a mother's loving caresses, and learn to answer to the stiff-sounding name of Priscilla. Even her brothers—she had four of them, all younger than herself—only called her Prissy; and her father always addressed her as Priscilla. "Sissy" had been the mother's pet name for her.

As she left the room, the tramp, tramp of boyish feet met her ear, and up the stairs bounded three handsome boys—Lewis, the oldest, nearly fourteen; Austin, about one year younger; and Archie, a delicate-looking child of seven. They all clustered round their sister, their faces bright as if no tears had so lately stained them, fresh from the open air, and their youthful spirits rising, as the spirits of the young, thank God, will rise even after days of deep sorrow.

"Prissy!" they said in one breath, "do come out; it is delightful in the garden. And there are violets in the grove by the river-side; do come and gather them."

But Prissy turned away. What cared she for violets now when the one for whom she loved to gather them was no longer here to receive them? No, there was nothing in the world for her to care for—no one to whom she could give pleasure; and unheeding the pleading looks of her young brothers, she went to her own room. Ah, Prissy! There were hearts as loving as yours waiting for a look of sympathy, a word of kindness; they, too, miss a mother's welcome, a mother's interest in their simple pursuits, and turn away disappointed.

"Prissy might have come," muttered Archie.

"Oh! She does not care," said Lewis.

Only the grave-eyed Austin said kindly, "Poor Pris! I daresay she misses mother more than any of us. She didn't mean to be unkind, I am sure."

In the meantime Prissy had sought the quiet of her own room, and drawn down the blind to shut out the sunshine, which seemed to mock her grief. Perhaps her conscience reproached her; it may be a still small voice whispered she had done wrong, had been selfish; but if so, she did not listen to it long, only bent her head on the table and cried bitterly.

Her Bible lay near, but she did not open it. She had not yet fully learned the comfort God's Word can give in sorrow. Prissy had been taught to reverence the Holy Scriptures as her father and mother did; to recognize God as the Creator and Upholder of the world, as an Almighty King, the Disposer of all events and the Ruler of the universe. But she rested there; not yet had she learned to know Jesus as a personal Saviour, nor God as a Father who cared for her and counted the very hairs of her head.

Only shortly before her death had even the amiable mother of the family learned to love the person of Christ. But that love once experienced, she had spoken words about Jesus to her children which had sunk deep into the hearts of some of them, and would one day bring forth fruit. On one of her last evenings on earth, she had spoken to the three oldest on the words "Thy kingdom come," expressing the earnest hope that they might each of them help on its coming.

It was Prissy who, with flashing eyes, said she would like to do so, adding it would be such a glorious work to be the means of elevating and bettering the world around her. In after days Priscilla remembered the unsatisfied look that crossed her mother's face as she spoke these words, and how she laid her hand caressingly on her shoulder, and was beginning to speak, when the door opened, and her father entering, the conversation dropped, and was not again resumed.

Professor Warner, one of the greatest mathematicians of his day, was a highly respected and in one sense a God-fearing man; but though fully recognizing the wonderful work of redemption, he had overlooked the need of love to the One who had redeemed him.

In family life, the doctor (for the honour of LL.D. had long been his) was reserved and deeply absorbed in his books. Domestic cares had entirely devolved on his wife, to whom he was fondly attached, though as a rule, he considered the whole female sex infinitely inferior to man.

And when the birth of his first child was announced to him, the expressive words, said with a sigh of disappointment, "Only a girl," was the sole remark he uttered.

"Only a girl!" repeated the incensed nurse. "As if a daughter in a house was not the best of blessings, better a hundred times than your great noisy boys. One would think the master was a heathen to speak like that, as if it was not through a woman that the greatest of all blessings descended to earth."

Despite nurse's indignation, the words "only a girl" became a sort of sobriquet to the little one; and when four boys followed in succession, and were warmly welcomed by their proud father, who prophesied great things of each one, whilst he might be said almost to overlook his first-born, friends and relations declared that, save to her loving mother, Priscilla Warner was indeed "only a girl."

A strangely quiet life she led, shut out as she was from all companionship with girls of her own age. Inheriting in no common degree her father's talents, Prissy, while still a child, became absorbed in studies, the nature of which even her mother was unaware of. For Mrs. Warner, busied with her children, husband, and household matters, superintending also many lesser details of her daughter's education, never knew that her spare hours were spent in the study of mathematics, for which she had a perfect passion.

The only member of the family who knew her secret was Austin; and boy though he was, he had been her first instructor in the rudiments of the science in which he as well as his brother Lewis were daily instructed by their father.

"Why not let me tell father you like these sort of things, Prissy?" he said one day.

But she implored him not to do so, having often heard her father express contempt for women bungling away at matters they could never properly understand.

"No, no," he said; "let a woman be a good housekeeper, and if she can read intelligibly, write plainly, keep a few accounts correctly, make shirts properly, and, if she likes, play on the piano or the guitar, and sing, that is all that can be expected of her. A woman has not brains for higher things."

At such a speech, child though she was, Prissy would flush up with indignation, and determine that one day she would prove to her father what a woman could do. To become famous, to do some grand work on earth, this was the girl's ambition, this the only secret she had kept from her loving mother. The day would come when she would constrain the father (whose praise she esteemed more than aught on earth, and for whose love she yearned) to own that she was something more than "only a girl."

But since the death of her mother, all ambitious thoughts had left the girl's head. She was stunned, and had scarcely even gone to the nursery to look at the little infant sleeping in the pretty cot prepared for her by the hands of the mother who had lived but to clasp her to her heart and give her a dying blessing. A sudden low cry from the room next hers now aroused Prissy, and lifting her head she listened. It was the baby, and she remembered with a pang of reproach, that that day she had never even asked after the child.

Ere doing so, she opened the Bible, her mother's last gift to her on her fifteenth birthday, just one fortnight ago. She turned to the page on which her name was written, and read below it the words, "Thy kingdom come," and these other words, "To every man his work."

"Yes," she said, and raised her head confidently as she spoke, "I have a work to do; and I will do it, and make my father proud of me yet. And how about the kingdom of God?"

She hesitated, then said, "Well, of course, if I study earnestly, I will be able to teach others, and thus elevate the thoughts of many, and so, by bettering the world, hasten on the coming of God's kingdom. Yes; that would be one way of doing it, I think so, surely. But I wonder what Austin would say? Mamma's words about the kingdom seemed to impress him so much, although he said little. I am sure that some way or other Austin will help on the kingdom of God; and so, I am determined, shall I. One thing is plain—I must no longer waste my time."

And forgetting her determination of going into the nursery, she went to the window, pulled up the blind, and taking down her slate and books was soon deep in solving some, to her, new and interesting mathematical problems.

She worked on, unheeding all around her, till darkness began to steal over the sky. And just as she was going to stop, a knock came to the door, and a servant said:

"Miss Warner, your father wishes to see you in his study as soon as possible."

[CHAPTER II.]

FATHER AND DAUGHTER.

"In the way that he shall choose,
God will teach us;
Not a lesson we shall lose—
All shall reach us."

IT was with a feeling of wonder and reverence that Priscilla Warner entered her father's study.

The room was almost dark, though the parting rays of light lingered longer there than in the rooms at the other part of the house. Dr. Warner still sat, by the window, with an open book before him.

As the girl entered, he rose and greeted her gently, nay even courteously.

Priscilla noted the change the last few days had wrought in his appearance: his hair was grayer, his tall figure more bent than of yore, and when he spoke there was a tremble in his voice strangely unlike that of former times. Fain would the impulsive girl have thrown herself into his arms and tried to comfort him, as a daughter might have done; but the habit of years held her back, and she only stood before him quietly and respectfully, forcing back the emotions that filled her heart, knowing how her father dreaded what he called "women's scenes."

"You wished to speak to me, father," she said at last, breaking a silence which was becoming painful.

"Ah, yes," he said, raising his head; for he had resumed his reading, and apparently become oblivious of her presence. "True, I sent for you to tell you the arrangements I have made."

Then, as he looked at the girl, he said suddenly, "How old are you, my daughter?"

"Fifteen," she answered; "almost a woman now."

He sighed. "True, true, and, one would have said, doubly needing a mother's care. But we must not question the Creator's wisdom. 'His ways are not our ways, neither are his thoughts our thoughts.' 'His will be done.' And since, for his own wise purposes, he has thought fit to remove from you a loving mother—'truly a woman one in a thousand'—just at the time of life when you, as it seems to us, most needed her care, I have thought it necessary to get some one to superintend you and the household. And I am glad to say your cousin, Miss Vernon, has consented to remain with us for some time at least, and carry on your education and that of the younger children."

A flash of contempt passed over the girl's face as her father spoke these words, but she only said, "Yes, father, so I expected."

The tone of her voice sounded rebellious, and Dr. Warner said more decidedly, "I need not say, Priscilla, that I expect you all to show her the greatest respect, remembering that she is giving up her own ease and comfort for our sakes. Of your studies we will speak another day. You are not specially clever, Priscilla, but you are well advanced, and know nearly enough for a woman, I daresay. Go on in the meantime as you have been doing. And be kind to your brothers, Priscilla; they are fine boys, with splendid talents, and please God will turn out great men and an honour to their country. Lewis specially is a brilliant scholar, and has made wonderful progress in mathematics lately; and he is a good boy, too, although his mother seemed latterly afraid of his being easily led by companions. But then even the best of women—and she was one of them—can never be good judges of boys, at least of such a talented one as Lewis. Austin also, though not so clever as his brother, is steady, and will do well."

At these words Priscilla could keep silence no longer. "Austin not so clever, father! Why, he is more so than Lewis, and often helps him with the most difficult problems. Oh, it is Austin, and not Lewis, that will be the great man."

Dr. Warner looked up amazed at his daughter's vehemence, but shook his head. "No, no, Priscilla; Austin is not 'fit to hold a candle' to his brother. But what can a girl like you know about mathematical problems? No doubt both boys help each other, but the real helper, I fancy, is Lewis. Girls cannot understand these things."

It was in Priscilla's heart to tell that the real helper was herself. It was to her that Austin came in his difficulties; and when they had together worked out the problems, he helped Lewis.

A long silence followed this conversation.

Dr. Warner had resumed his book, and still Priscilla remained, awaiting further orders. But her father gave no sign; apparently he had forgotten that she was in the room.

At last she summoned courage to speak again.

"Have you no further orders to give me?" she said.

"Oh, yes," he replied, a shade of pain crossing his face as he did so. "About the babe. It must be baptized, and soon, but not in church. It is not a strong infant, so Mr. Lascelles says he will baptize it here. But its name, my daughter—what shall we call her?"

"Mary," said Priscilla. It was her mother's name, and therefore very dear to her.

But her father shook his head.

"No, no, not that name. My lips would refuse to utter it. Let me think. Scripture names are suitable for girls, and this—alas!—is another maid-child. Stay, we will call her Ruth. I like the character of Ruth. A true woman she was, affectionate and loving; knew her duty, and did it, without much talking either. Yes, the infant shall be called Ruth."

"Now about godmothers and a godfather. Let me see. I wonder if Miss Vernon would be one? We will ask her. And the other? We might get—" But ere he could finish his sentence, Priscilla interrupted him.

"Father, if you have no objection, I would like to be one of my little sister's godmothers."

"You!" The exclamation was not complimentary to her, and the girl was stung by it.

"Yes, father," she said, "though I am 'only a girl,' still I can surely take charge of my little sister as well as Miss Vernon."

"Take charge! Yes, my daughter. No doubt you can do that; but this is not merely a matter of taking charge, it relates to higher things—to train her in the knowledge of God. Can you do that, Priscilla?"

The girl's eyes lowered. "I will try," she said, "God helping me."

"Well," was the reply, "if you desire it, I will not say no. I mean to ask Harry Lascelles to be the godfather."

"Harry Lascelles, father! Do you think he will consent? He is so little at home; and now he is on the eve of setting off for a voyage of some years."

"I know; but I believe he will consent. And though young Dr. Lascelles is not as gifted as my own sons, he has good common sense and high principles, and I will be glad to give my poor motherless babe such a godfather. I expect the child will be baptized between services on Sunday first. See that everything is ready for the ordinance—or wait, I'll tell Miss Vernon about it. You can go now. Good evening, my daughter. God bless you;" and as he spoke he laid his hand gently on her head.

Something in the touch overcame the girl, and, unmindful of her father's dread of "scenes," she sobbed aloud, "O father, father! Don't send me away; let me stay beside you, and comfort you. And oh, father, love me; I have no one to care for me now."

Never had Dr. Warner felt more perplexed; no problem was so difficult for him to solve as this of a "girl's mood," as he termed it. What to do or to say he knew not. His wife had never acted thus.

He raised the sobbing girl, who had thrown herself impulsively at his feet, and soothed her as one would a fretful child. "Love you? Of course I do. And your brothers, Priscilla? You have their love surely. Only you know it is not my way to make a fuss. I never did, even with your mother; and she had too much sense to expect it. Women, Priscilla, are naturally impulsive; and it is a great thing when they learn to control themselves. No true woman gives such way to her emotions as you are doing now, my poor child."

At these words the girl freed herself from her father's arms and stood upright, once more the apparently cold, unimpulsive girl she so often seemed to be. She saw now how hopeless it was to get nearer to her father's heart.

"Forgive me," she said. "I will try and do as you wish; and if I cannot be a comfort to you, will try at least not to be a burden."

And without saying another word, she left the room.

For a moment her father stood lost in thought. "Strange child," he said. "I wonder what she meant? How could she comfort me? Girls are so difficult to understand; and yet I would fain do my duty by her, poor child! And she has a fine face, too, and splendid head. Her brow reminds me more of my grandfather's than any of the boys do, and he was one of the greatest mathematicians of his day. Strange, is it not?"

Then ringing the bell for a lamp, he resumed his studies, and Priscilla was forgotten. She was "only a girl."

[CHAPTER III.]

A BAPTISM.

"Jesus, bless our little one
With the shining hair!
We would hold our treasure safe
'Neath a Father's care."

THE quiet baptism was over, and Dr. Warner, who had been much overcome during the ordinance, had left the room, followed by the vicar.

The sponsors alone remained behind—Priscilla holding the babe in her arms, a strong gust of love towards the helpless little one filling her heart; and silently she was asking help to be faithful to the vows she had taken as regarded the upbringing of the child. So absorbed in thought had she become, that she had not observed that Miss Vernon also had left, leaving her alone with Harry Lascelles.

These two were fast friends, though the young navy doctor was ten years her senior. He was an orphan, brought up from early childhood by his maternal grandfather, the vicar of the parish, part of which was in the town of Hereford, in the suburbs of which Dr. Warner's residence, "The Grove," was situated.

Harry was a fine, open-hearted young man, with a large amount of common sense. He was a Christian in the fullest meaning of the word; and he really strove, like his divine Master, to "go about doing good."

"Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might," was, as the vicar loved to say, the motto of Harry's life. His bright, cheery ways made him a special favourite with all the youngsters at the Grove; and a groan of vexation was heard from the boys when it was announced that Harry Lascelles was about to start as naval doctor on a long expedition to the African coast.

He was the first to break the silence when he also discovered that Priscilla and he were left alone with the little one whom they had unitedly promised to train for God. He stepped forward and, with the freedom of an old friend, laid his hand on the girl's shoulder.

"Poor Sissy!" he said (using unconsciously her mother's pet name for her). "I am so sorry to have to go and leave you all in this time of sorrow. I, too, feel as if I had lost a mother in dear Mrs. Warner, and am so glad your father has asked me to be godfather to the wee motherless babe; but the real charge, Sissy, will devolve on you. You have, indeed, a great work before you in the care of all these children, for it is to you, far more than to Miss Vernon, they will look to fill their mother's place. And such a mother! You have, indeed, a work to do which even the angels might envy!"

The girl looked up, restraining with an effort the choking sob which the sound of her pet name had evoked.

"Yes," she said half proudly, "I have a work to do, Harry; and I am determined to do it—to prove to my father that, though 'only a girl,' I can do as much as a man, ay, and more than many of them can."

The words and tone startled the young man, and he answered quietly, "I do trust, Prissy,—" (he had dropped the pet name now), "that you will indeed prove to your father that, because you are 'only a girl,' you can do a work in which the greatest of men would fail; but take care you find out what that work really is."

She gave no answer, but said abruptly, "And you go to-morrow, Harry, and may not be back for years?"

"Even so," he replied. "Don't forget me, Prissy. And one word ere I say good-bye: look lovingly after the boys. They will sorely miss their mother," and he lowered his voice as he spoke. "Make the evenings at home as cheerful as you can for Lewis."

"Why for Lewis?" she said half-angrily, for he was not her favourite brother, and she fancied that others as well as her father thought more of him than of Austin.

But ere Harry could answer her question, the door opened, and Lewis, followed by Miss Vernon, reentered.

And in a few minutes, Harry Lascelles' farewell words were spoken to all three. And imprinting a kiss on the forehead of his little, sleeping god-daughter, he said, "Of such is the kingdom of God."

Then turning to Austin, who stood near him, he said (as if in allusion to something they had talked of before), "We must all help on the kingdom of God, not only by doing great things, but also little ones." And with these words he was off, to do the work of life appointed to him in scenes far distant from the quiet vicarage where he had been brought up.

Priscilla stood a minute or so still with the infant in her arms, a stunned feeling in her heart. She had heard Harry's farewell words in a sort of stupor, and hardly yet realized that her kind, cheery friend's good-bye had been really said, and that years might elapse ere he would be again at home.

Miss Vernon's voice aroused her.

"Give me baby, Priscilla," she said kindly. "You look tired. Had you not better rest a bit before church time?"

"Oh, I'm not tired," was the reply. "I can take baby to the nursery myself. I'll join you all before you set out for church;" and so saying she left the room.

Her heart was full, but not a tear fell till she was alone; then it seemed as if her very heart would break with the feeling of desolation and misery that overwhelmed her. Would life, she asked herself, be always like this—one great sorrow, with none to love or help her? The only voice that answered her question was that of conscience, and she tried not to listen to it; but she caught the words—"Are you going the right way to win love, or are you not rather repelling it? God has given you plenty of work to do to deaden the sense of desolation; and are you not putting it from you and preferring your own work?"

No wonder that downstairs Miss Vernon was chafing at the coldness of the girl to whom she was at least desirous of acting kindly; whilst the boys were heard to mutter that Prissy was as changed as she could be, and never cared to please any one now.

The same spirit of discontent and weariness pervaded the household all the rest of the day. More than ever the gentle mother was missed then; and not without a pang of compunction did Prissy hear Lewis, as he kicked off his boots ere going to bed, mutter that the day of little Ruth's baptism might truly be called the "Black Sunday."

"How could it have been otherwise?" she said.

Yet the thought would arise that she might have made it different to the boys at least; but she comforted herself that next day, things would be better, and she, occupied with the great work of her life, would be happier also. Yet even in her dreams the question arose, Was that the work which Harry had said "angels might envy"? Was she really going by it to help on the "kingdom of God"?

[CHAPTER IV.]

LA BELLE GABRIELLE.

"All hearts do pray, God love her!
Ay, and always, in good sooth,
We may all be sure he doth."

THE summer sunshine, which was lighting up with renewed beauty the woods in the neighbourhood of the Grove, and painting in exquisite colours, as with the finger of God, the flowers in many gardens, fell only feebly in some of the narrow dingy streets in the great over-crowded cities.

A few rays only had found entrance into one house in a narrow street in the town of Birmingham; but those rays were joyously welcomed by the inmates of the dwelling.

"See, maman," said a bright-looking young girl about the same age as Priscilla Warner, "said I not ere long the sun would be round here to cheer us up? Only see!" And as she spoke, she drew up the blind.

The lady whom the girl addressed as mother looked up with a smile from the couch on which she was reclining.

"'Tis well, Gabrielle," she said, in a sweet tone, though with a foreign accent, "that thou canst look out for sunshine and make the most of it when it shines, only too seldom in this triste contrée. And truly everything looks dark just now—my long illness, the boys' education, the expense of having to keep a nurse for the babe, and, now that the long holidays have begun, your father having so few pupils; and then, though we have not too much sunshine, yet the air feels sultry and the house close, and—"

"Fi donc, maman," said the girl with a silvery laugh. "What a list of woes you have given, the poor maman! But see! Hast thou not taught thy little Gabrielle to look at the mercies as well as at the trials of life? Now, then!"

And seating herself on a low stool near the couch, and taking the baby (which lay beside its mother) on her lap, she began playfully—

"True, thou art ill, and that is the worst of all the troubles; but the doctor says you are getting better. Then is it not good that the petits garcons are so well that they can be at school? And has not the nurse been a comfort to thee as well as an expense? And I do believe her coming saved the life of ma petite sœur, my little Jean—my Scotch lassie, as le père calls her, while I am his French one, his Gabrielle."

"And see, again, as to pupils. Well, 'tis a pity about that; but then papa is so clever, and paints so charmingly, that I am sure some day he will get a good appointment. And then, mother, we know le bon Dieu lives and cares for us. How often you have told us so! And only this morning, before he went out, papa said, 'We must trust the Lord—'"

"'He never yet forsook at need
The soul that trusted him indeed.'"

"God bless my little sunbeam," said Mrs. M'Ivor, as she drew her daughter into her arms, and in her native tongue (for by birth she was a French woman) called her many loving names.

Gabrielle M'Ivor, whose life was to exert an influence over more than one of the characters in our story, was indeed a lovable girl and fair to look at.

As yet small in stature, with the neatest of figures always set off to advantage by a dress of a perfect fit, simple and inexpensive, yet with an air of elegance about it that many of her companions in far more costly array strove to copy in vain. Her face, if not perfect in feature, was yet wonderfully bewitching, with its sparkling black eyes, so thoroughly French, and the wealth of hair, that glory of girlhood, so prettily arranged and contrasting so strikingly with the black eyes. For it was really golden, inherited from her Scotch father, though his undoubtedly inclined to the unromantic shade named red.

But Gabrielle's charms were more than "skin deep." She had the promise of being a noble woman—self-forgetful and loving. With all the brightness and light-heartedness of a French woman, she possessed a good portion of Scotch solidity and firmness, and above all a real trust in and love to God and her Saviour Jesus Christ. She also (though in a different way), like Priscilla Warner, felt she had a work, and a great one, given her to do on earth, and like Priscilla, she was ambitious to do it.

The M'Ivors, at the time we write of, had been for five years settled in the town of Birmingham, where Mr. M'Ivor was a teacher of drawing. But although he had a good number of pupils, yet his wife's long illness, and the needs of a family of seven children, of whom Gabrielle was the oldest except one, made it hard work to keep the wolf from the door.

André, the oldest, was a clever, plodding lad of some sixteen years, steady, and very considerate of his parents as well as of his sister Gabrielle, to whom he was fondly attached. Despite his Scotch origin, his appearance was thoroughly French, though his mother laughingly told him in character he was altogether a canny Scotchman, quiet and firm. The younger boys—Jules, Philippe, and James—were bright, healthy children, quick and affectionate, giving their mother and Gabrielle no end of work in patching clothes and darning stockings for them.

Such is a slight sketch of the family into whose small dwelling the summer sunbeams peeped on the morning we are writing of.

Mother and daughter had remained silent for a short time, when the door opened, and a tall, fair-haired gentleman entered with a bright expression on his clever, sensible face.

The invalid looked up with a happy smile.

"Ah, Jacques," she said, "how soon you have returned! That is pleasant."

But Gabrielle, with the keen eye of youth, had seen something in her father's face that she read quickly, and springing up with the baby still in her arms, said—

"O papa, thou hast heard good news, I am sure. Has the appointment we have hoped for so long come at last? Oh! I see it has by the look in your eyes. Tell us what it is, dear papa; tell us quickly, please."

Ere answering, Mr. M'Ivor seated himself by the couch, and taking his wife's hand, he said quietly—

"The Lord is good, Marie. We have reason to thank him. I have just received a letter from an old and revered friend of mine, Professor Warner of Hereford, offering me the situation of drawing-master in a large collegiate school there, with the option of giving private lessons to any other pupils. There is, he writes, a good house and garden provided, and the yearly salary is good also. What do you say? Shall we accept it? Come here also, my little Gabrielle, and tell us what you think about the matter."

"O papa, is it not too charming?" said the impetuous girl, putting the baby on her father's knee, and stooping as she spoke over her mother's couch. "Only to think of it! A house and garden, and money enough to keep that horrid wolf, that even I was beginning to fear, from our door. And now we shall be able to get nourishing food and fresh air for the pauvre maman, and she will get well again; and André, our dear, good André, will get some good opening as a teacher also, I daresay. Oh! We have reason to thank God, who has been so mindful of us. Mamma, speak; say, is it not delightful?"

"Indeed it is, my precious sunbeam; and I feel it a loving rebuke to me for my want of faith and trust in Him who has never forsaken us. Of course, Jacques, you will accept the offer, and thank Dr. Warner warmly for his kind remembrance of you."

"No fear of my not doing that, Marie. But are not our first thanks due to Him who put it into Dr. Warner's heart to do this kindness?"

And so saying the father bent his head, and, with Gabrielle kneeling beside him and his wife's thin hand still clasped in his, gave thanks to their heavenly Father, who had remembered them in their time of need, and brought them into a "large place," for Christ Jesus' sake.

Whilst they were thus engaged, the door opened, and a fine-looking young lad entered, and stood, cap in hand, with bent head and reverent look, till the prayer, or rather the thanksgiving, was ended.

Then he came quietly forward, and touching his sister lightly on the shoulder, said, "Gabrielle, what has happened?"

The father and mother could not refrain from smiling at the vehemence of Gabrielle's reply, as she told the news to her favourite brother, whose brow lightened and eyes sparkled with pleasure as he listened.

Then going forward to his parents, he said, "This is good news indeed. I am so thankful. Now, please God, I shall be able to do something to help you all."

"Indeed, André, you have done that for some time," said his mother, looking with pride and fondness at her first-born son.

And even Mr. M'Ivor, who was not given to lavishing praise too freely, echoed her words, and laying his hand on his boy's shoulder, said—

"God has been good to us in all our children; has he not, Marie?"

André M'Ivor was, in truth, a son whom any parents might have been thankful to possess—thoughtful and firm, clever and steady, actuated by the love of God, and desirous of living to his glory; yet even on religious subjects reserved and reticent, seldom expressing his feelings except to his sister Gabrielle, but by his earnest Christian life bearing a noble testimony to his Master. He, too, realized that God had given to every man his work, and expected him to do it. And he also sought to do what in him lay to hasten on the coming of God's kingdom.

And thus it happened that when the summer holidays were over, and the October sun shone on stubble fields and played on the heads of groups of young and old engaged in many an orchard gathering the rosy-checked apples to store up for winter use, and schools were reopened and studies resumed, the M'Ivors found themselves comfortably settled in a pretty suburban cottage in the town of Hereford, ready to begin with grateful hearts the work which God had given them to do.

[CHAPTER V.]

HELPING ON THE KINGDOM.

"Jesus, Master, whom I serve,
Though so feebly and so ill,
Strengthen hand and heart and nerve
All thy bidding to fulfil;
Open thou mine eyes to see
All the work thou hast for me."

ON just such an October morning as we have spoken of in our last chapter, Austin Warner stood lost in thought. School-boy though he was, and one of the most eager of them at all boyish games, yet there were times when grave thoughts and even anxieties pressed on his heart. All was not going well in his home life, and he knew it. Since his mother's death, everything had become changed; and the question he was asking himself that morning was, how far he could hinder the growing evil.

He had just prayed the Lord's Prayer, and the petition, "Thy kingdom come," was ringing in his ears. Was it not, he was asking himself, a solemn mockery to repeat those words day by day, and yet do nothing to help on that kingdom, or at least to try to prevent the increase of Satan's one?

True, he was young, and could not do much; but was he doing what he could? Lewis, his loved brother, his constant playmate and companion, was, he feared, going far astray from the kingdom of God, and he knew not how to stop him. Nay, he was afraid he had most unwillingly helped him on his downward path; for often lately, rather than let his brother fall under his father's displeasure, he had written his exercises for him, and more than once worked out his mathematical problems also, for Lewis had got into the way of remaining out in the evenings and spending them with idle companions, saying:

"It was so dull at home now he could not stand it. Priscilla, not he, was to blame if he went wrong. A fellow must have amusement somewhere."

Thinking on these things, Austin resolved to delay no longer, but speak to his brother, and beg him to begin the session in a new spirit. Rousing himself from his reverie, he ran downstairs to the breakfast-room, where he found Priscilla alone, Lewis not having as yet appeared.

"Good morning, Prissy," Austin said in a cheerful tone.

But though his sister smiled in reply, and echoed his words, she looked tired and listless.

"Lewis is late again as usual," she said. "I can't think how he will get on at school if he goes on in this way. Miss Vernon should speak to him, or do something in the matter."

"Miss Vernon has spoken to him, Prissy, and very kindly too; but don't you think if you did, it would have more effect? Indeed you don't know into what difficulties he is getting himself; and it will just break our father's heart if any complaints of Lewis reach his ear."

"You are not afraid of that?" said his sister, now almost pale with fear. "I would not have my father vexed on any account, for we all know how his heart is bound up in Lewis."

"Will you speak to him yourself then, Prissy?" urged Austin.

"What use is there in my so doing?" she replied. "I did once, and he said something about it being all my fault, and that when mother was alive it was very different. As if," went on the girl passionately, "I needed to be reminded of how different every thing was when she was alive. I only wish I could get away from it all, and live to some purpose in the world."

Austin drew near his sister, and put his arm lovingly round her. "Prissy," he said, "don't you think if we were really doing well, the little things God has given us to do, we would be living to some purpose, and helping on his kingdom?"

Austin's grave, earnest words touched the girl's heart.

"I do believe you are helping it on," she said; "but as for me, everything seems wrong. Even in what I thought was to be my great work I have come to a standstill. I can go no further in either mathematics or astronomy without a teacher, and my father would not instruct me in either, I know."

Austin smiled a loving arch smile. "Poor Prissy!" he said. "But don't be vexed if I say I'm not sorry you have come to a standstill in these things. Don't despair—you will find a use for them some day; but at present we need you sorely for many things, Prissy. There is work, and plenty of it, lying at your hand. But I must go and see if I can get Lewis out of bed."

He bounded upstairs, and soon returned with Lewis to the breakfast-room, where Miss Vernon was presiding at the tea-table, and Dr. Warner and the children had assembled.

"Late as usual, boys," said the professor, not angrily, but with a pleased, proud look at the two handsome lads as they entered arm in arm. "Sitting up too late at night studying, Lewis, I fear; but remember the saying, 'Early to bed, and early to rise, is the way to be healthy and wealthy and wise.'"

Breakfast over, both boys set off to school, and Austin gained courage to speak a word to his brother.

"Lewis," he said, "have you spoken to young M'Ivor in your class? He is such a capital fellow. Might we ask him to come and walk with us next half-holiday? He has made friends already with the best set of boys in the school, and it would be jolly for us to join them. You know, Lewis, it would grieve our father terribly if he knew how you spend your evenings with Smith and Roberts and that set. Do begin this session afresh, and remain at home in the evenings. Is it not mean and wrong to let our father think you are studying hard, when all the while you are really worse than wasting your time?"

"Well," said Lewis, "I know it is not right; but what can one do? It is so horribly dull at home. Prissy pores over a book the whole evening, and never speaks to any one; and Miss Vernon's head is always aching, and she stays in her own room. We have such jolly times in the club-room; and we are not doing any real harm, at least I don't. But, old boy, I daresay you are right, and I don't want to vex you, so maybe I'll try and endure a night at home if I can."

As soon as school was over, Austin ran home and got hold of his sister.

"O Prissy," he said, "Lewis has promised to begin to stay at home in the evenings this session. Will you try to make it bright for him? Do try, and I'll do all I can to help you."

But Prissy's mood had changed since the morning. She had got a new book on astronomy, which had at once occupied her mind. She had already been obliged to lay it down several times in order to obey some positive command of Miss Vernon's, and she was looking forward with eagerness to the evening, when she would be free to study it unmolested. For Priscilla's idea of spending a pleasant evening was to set the children with some picture-book or solitary game round the table, telling them to make as little noise as possible, as she wished to read.

So when Austin spoke she only replied testily, "Really I think Lewis might learn to spend his evenings rationally like other people. What does he wish to do? Does he need you or me to play with him, as if he were a baby, requiring to be amused? It is too absurd, Austin. You, like every one else, seem bent on spoiling Lewis."

But even as she spoke, Harry Lascelles' words, "Make the evenings pleasant at home for Lewis," rose to her remembrance. And she said, "But if you wish it, I will see what I can do."

Perhaps she did try; but if so, she failed. The evening seemed long and tedious to Lewis. He asked for music, of which he was very fond; but his sister said, "Oh, really I could not play to-night. I have not practised regularly for a long time."

"Well, then, let us have a song," he said, "and Austin and I will take a part as we used to do."

But Prissy answered, "I can't sing to-night. Don't you hear how hoarse I am?" And turning away, she resumed her book.

And Lewis, muttering, "I can't stand this, Austin," rose and went out, slamming the door after him.

When, ere lying down to rest, Prissy repeated—dare we say prayed?—the Lord's Prayer, and asked that his "kingdom might come," did she think she had tried to help on its coming in the heart of her own brother that day? Or, rather, were there not evil spirits rejoicing that night over the fresh hold they had got on a young soul, which they might have been hindered from having by a sister's loving words and holy example? Yes, Priscilla Warner had done a work that day, but it was in the furthering of Satan's, not God's kingdom.

Did angels envy her that work, as Harry Lascelles said they might have done the one God had given her to do? Alas! Alas!

In his own room that night, Austin Warner waited, as he had often done before, till he heard his brother's step returning at a late hour, and then hastened to open the door for him, in case a ring or knock should bring their father out of his study to ask who was there.

He opened it in silence; and without speaking a word, Lewis slipped off to bed.

Austin went to bed also; but in doing so, one low bitter cry rose to his Father in heaven: "O God, forgive me. I did try to help on thy kingdom to-day, but have failed. For Christ's sake, forgive; and help me to begin afresh to-morrow. Oh! Save my brother Lewis from the evil one, and open my sister's eyes to see the truth."

Had his efforts been altogether in vain? Or was the fact that both Priscilla and Lewis lay down that night with troubled consciences not the effect in some measure of his brave endeavours to help on the kingdom of God?

[CHAPTER VI.]

THE LOST CHILD.

"Is there in God's world so drear a place
Where the loud bitter cry is raised in vain—
Where tears of penance come too late for grace,
As on the uprooted flower the genial rain?"

OCTOBER was drawing to a close. The bright-tinted leaves were falling with every gust of wind; but the air was pleasant, and Priscilla Warner had taken her book into the garden to enjoy it in quiet, nominally taking charge of little Claude, who was amusing himself gathering the leaves into heaps.

Baby and nurse had come out also; and for a while even her loved book was put aside whilst Prissy took her little sister in her arms and carried her up and down. Truly baby Ruth might be called her sister's guardian angel; for the love which had sprung up in her heart to the little one, who, like herself, lacked a mother's love and care, was beautiful to see, and that love was, under God, the means of preventing the girl's heart from turning cold and hard.

The almost passionate love she gave her father seemed thrown back on her to smoulder only more deeply within her. But with little Ruth it was different. The baby returned her affection, and clung lovingly to her sister, following her with her eyes, and nestling confidingly in her arms as she would have done in those of her mother. And however busy Prissy might be, one sight of those baby arms extended to her was enough to make her stop any occupation in order to take her into her arms.

And even when her father let this motherless babe get a place on his knee, and apparently in his heart, which Priscilla had never got, she stifled her rising feeling of jealousy, and became happy in seeing that Ruth, though "only a girl," was gaining a warm place in her father's affection.

Poor Prissy! Once or twice when she saw the babe seated on her father's knee, where she never remembered to have sat, her eyes would fill with tears; and one day she amazed the doctor by saying, "Happy Ruth! I wonder what it feels like to sit on your knee, father."

He pushed the spectacles he wore up on his brow, and looked at her for a moment, then said, "What do you mean, my daughter? Did you never sit there? Ah! true. I remember I did not care much for babies when you were little. But then you had a mother's knee to sit on, and my wee Ruth has none. Don't grudge her mine, Priscilla."

And she did not. And now on the October day we are writing of, as she walked up and down she was thanking God for the blessing of possessing the love of her little sister.

Presently nurse came to take the child; and Prissy resumed her book, and became so engrossed in it that she forgot everything around her—how time was passing, where she was, and even the fact of little Claude's existence. At last a voice roused her:

"Priscilla, are you never coming in to luncheon? And where is Claude? Nurse is vexed he has remained so long out of doors. He should have been ready for his dinner now."

The speaker was Miss Vernon, and Prissy sprang to her feet in dismay.

"Oh, I am sorry, Miss Vernon," she said; "but I never thought it was so late.—Claude! Claude!" she called, running down the garden path. "Where are you, child?"

But no reply came, and both she and Miss Vernon sought in every corner of the garden in vain; no Claude was to be found.

Could he have gone into the house? No. Nurse left baby and joined in the search; but the child was nowhere to be seen. Suddenly Priscilla observed that a back gate which was seldom used, and which led from the garden to the common, was open, and she at once suggested that Claude might have slipped through and got out on the common. True, the children were forbidden to go there alone; but Claude was young, and might have forgotten that.

The common was searched in all directions, but with no success; and with an unspeakable pang of agony, Prissy remembered that not far-off there was a deep pond. She feared to speak of it. Oh, if only Austin were home; if only she could keep her father from knowing. Surely in a little, the child would be found; he could not have wandered far. Poor little Claude! How could she, oh, how could she have neglected him so? And why did Harry Lascelles' words about the work which angels might envy come into her memory now?

Just then, to Miss Vernon's great relief and to Prissy's dismay, Dr. Warner entered the garden and demanded what was the matter.

"Claude amissing? What do you mean?" he said. "Who had charge of him?"

"Priscilla," was the answer.

"What was she doing to allow a child like that to go off by himself?"

"She was studying," replied Miss Vernon.

"Studying? Nonsense! What could she be studying?—Bring the book to me, Priscilla," he continued; then lingering a moment to look at the name, and muttering, "Astronomy? Absurd! What can a girl know or care about that?" he quickly pocketed the cherished volume, and without vouchsafing a word to his daughter strode off in search of the child.

But all searching proved useless. And during those long hours of suspense, the voice of conscience, which Prissy had stifled so long, made itself be heard, and her eyes were at last opened to see her error. Oh, how she had been neglecting her God-given work for her own selfish ends and ambitious purposes!

At four o'clock, Lewis and Austin returned from school, and were startled by the troubled faces that met them. Dr. Warner was like a man possessed, walking up and down unable to decide what measures to take next. It was Austin who suggested, though in a low tone in case the words should reach his sister's ears, to drag the pond.

"God help us!" said the father. "Are you afraid of that? Is it possible? Shameful neglect! It is unpardonable in Priscilla."

"Stop, father," said Austin; "don't speak hastily to poor Prissy. Look at her; she is heart-broken."

At that moment, the gate which led into the common was opened wider, and André M'Ivor entered, bearing in his arms the motionless figure of little Claude.

With a cry, half of despair, half of thankfulness, Prissy darted to him and took the child in her arms.

"O Claude, darling Claude, speak! Just one word!—He is not dead! Oh, say he is not dead!"

"No, Miss Warner," said the lad in a calm, firm voice, "he is not dead, only faint from the effects of a bad fall; and I think he has dislocated his ankle. See, he is looking up. Let me carry him into the house."

But Dr. Warner strode up, his face white and stern.

"Thank God, and you also, M'Ivor," he said.

Then putting Priscilla determinedly aside, he carried the child home himself.

"Get Dr. la Rue instantly."

And allowing no one into the room save nurse and Miss Vernon, he sat down to watch till the doctor arrived.

In vain Priscilla sought admittance. As yet her father's wrath against her was too great to permit him even to look at her.

But when the doctor arrived, the girl forced her way into the room and heard his opinion.

Yes; Claude would live, he believed. He had sustained no serious injury; but a bone in the ankle was broken, and it would probably be weeks ere he would be able to walk. He must have perfect quiet now, and get the person he liked best to be with him.

"I suppose that will be his sister," said the doctor, turning kindly to Priscilla.

But the child, who was conscious now, shook his head and said—

"No, not Prissy. Prissy always say, 'Go 'way, I'se busy.'"

Poor Priscilla! For one moment she caught her father's eye fixed on her, now not so much in anger as in disappointment and grief. And without saying a word, she went to her own room and threw herself on her bed in an agony of tears. But they were more tears of shame than of anything else; and her cry was:

"Mother! mother! I've gone all wrong since you left me, and poor Claude's accident is my fault—mine only."

I think when the angels heard that cry they were glad. The first step to betterness is, they know, when a soul acknowledges it has sinned. And ere Prissy went to bed that night, after kissing Claude, she sat a while and thought about the kingdom of God and the work she had to do. Then the conviction flashed on her mind that she herself had never yet taken the first step into that kingdom of which it is written:

"Unless ye be converted, and become as little children, ye shall in no wise enter therein."

[CHAPTER VII.]

THE TURNING-POINT.

"The blessing fell upon her soul:
Her angel by her side
Know that the hour of peace was come;
Her soul was purified."

"WHERE are you going, Gabrielle?" said her mother, as one morning, shortly after Claude's accident, the bright French girl put on a dainty little hat, and placing two rosy-checked apples in a small wicker-work basket, was preparing to go out.

"Ah, maman," she answered, "I was just going to tell thee I was setting off to the Grove to ask for the pauvre petit garcon—André's protégé, we call him. Was it not a merciful thing that André should have passed by that part of the common and found the child lying behind a clump of furze bushes, where no one would have thought of looking for him? You know, ma chère mère, the doctor thinks the child had caught his foot in a hole and fallen (there are so many of those small holes in the common), and the fall had stunned him, so he lay motionless, and never heard his name called again and again by his father and friends. Poor Mam'selle Warner! They do say she blames herself for not taking care of the child; and André declares her face was white with fright. I am so sorry for her."

"Pauvre petite fille!" said Mrs. M'Ivor, "She must have plenty to do with all those motherless children, for Miss Vernon, on dit, is not at all strong. Yes, go, ma fille, and find out how they all are. I wish Miss Warner would come to see me, as I am not yet strong enough to walk so far as the Grove, and I would like to try and comfort the motherless girl, whose father has been so kind to us."

Priscilla Warner was seated alone in the parlour of the Grove, cast down and weary. Claude was still very ill, for fever had set in; and she was feeling intense grief that he never asked for her, though he would smile when she entered the room.

Then her father, her loved father, had spoken sternly to her, and told her plainly he was sorely disappointed in her, and had forbidden her to take out little Ruth even into the garden unless nurse or Miss Vernon were with her. Against this sentence she had protested strongly.

"O father, don't say that—please don't! Surely you can't think I would neglect Ruth, my darling little sister. Oh, don't wean her love from me; leave me that at least! O father, don't!"

But Dr. Warner was not moved by her entreaties. "I wish to wean no one's love from you, Priscilla," he said; "but I cannot have the child's life perhaps sacrificed to your carelessness. You don't seem to have won the children's love as you ought to have done. I fear you seek your own pleasure before theirs. Your mother never did that, Priscilla; it was always others first and herself last with her. I am disappointed in you, my daughter. You can go now; and remember what I have said."

Priscilla moved to the door, her heart too full to admit of her saying a word; but her father's voice recalled her:

"Stay a moment, Priscilla. What were you doing with this book?" And he produced the cherished "Treatise on Astronomy."

"Studying it, father," she replied, and as she spoke she looked him full in the face.

"You!" The tone of contempt in which the word was said was hard to bear. "Well, I do think, considering the fact that you could not really understand a word of it, that was a profitless way of spending your time. If you wish to know the names of the stars, why not ask myself or your brothers?"

At these words Prissy broke through all constraint. "Names of the stars, father?" she said. "Why, I have studied astronomy for long. I can answer you any question in that book you like to ask me—indeed I can. Father, I am not a fool; try me and see."

Dr. Warner looked at his daughter in amazement. "You have studied astronomy, Priscilla! No wonder, then, that your home duties were left unfulfilled. You know I strongly object to women bungling over subjects they can make nothing of. You had better give up playing at that sort of thing and attend to your proper lessons and duties."

And Priscilla, without a word, left the room and went to the parlour, and sat down in the frame of mind we have already described.

She had sat there for some time when the door was opened, and Miss M'Ivor was announced.

Priscilla had never seen Gabrielle before, and the bright face and winning manners of the girl captivated her at once.

"How is the little Claude to-day?" she asked. "Maman and I were so sorry for you, Mam'selle Warner; and I could not rest till I heard how you all were to-day. Ah, I know how anxious you will be, and how one loves the little brothers. André says he will never forget how frightened you looked. Is he, then, better to-day?"

Priscilla's eyes filled with tears as she replied, "Poor little Claude! He still suffers much; but the doctor says in time he will be well again. We were so grateful to your brother, Miss M'Ivor, for finding the child. I had intended to call at your house to-day and thank him."

"Ah, André was only too glad, he loves the little ones so much; our boys all cling to André. You see that mamma is so far from strong that André and I have had a great deal to do with the little ones. And it is pleasant to be able to help them, is it not?"

"Yes," said Priscilla; "but boys are difficult to manage, and they are so exacting that if one would study, you cannot be always attending to them."

Gabrielle laughed a sweet silvery laugh. "Ah, yes, 'tis true these little fellows think one has nothing to do in life save to attend to them. But what then? It is our work which the good God has given to us elder sisters, is it not? And we can easily put aside our loved studies to do his will and win their love, can we not?"

Priscilla shook her head. "Ah, but if one loves study," she said, "it is not so easy."

"No, truly," replied Gabrielle; "it is often a little cross which Jesus asks us to carry for him," and the girl's voice softened as she spoke. "He bore such a heavy cross for us. And then love lightens our little crosses so. Who knows but we may have the honour of leading these little ones into the kingdom of God? At all events, mamma says we must see to it that we do not by our selfishness cast a stumbling-block in the way of one of the little ones, and so keep them back from the kingdom. André does not, I am sure. Sometimes I am afraid they see it is an effort on my part to put aside my books to attend to them."

"Then you love study?" asked Prissy.

"Oh! So much; but, voila, there is not much time for it with all these little ones. And you, Miss Warner, must feel that also. See, here I brought these rosy-cheeked apples for the poor little Claude. Do you think he will care for them? Of course I know you have plenty others in your garden; but these are so pretty, perhaps he may fancy them."

"Thanks," said Priscilla; "they are beauties. I am sure Claude will like them; it was kind of you to bring them."

"Mamma begs you will come and see her, Miss Warner. It will be a real pleasure to her, if you will come; and I am sure you will love her. She is so sorry for any one who is motherless; and so am I," said the girl, with a look of love and pity in her eyes that went to Priscilla's heart. "Ah, what should I do without the dear maman? The world would indeed be triste, oh, très-triste then. But you have such a good brother, Miss Warner, André says. Mr. Austin Warner is so good and kind; and you should hear how the poor sick lad Anthony Smith speaks of him. He told papa the other day, if ever he got into the kingdom of God, it would be through Mr. Austin's showing him the way."

Then rising, Gabrielle said good-bye, and with a bright smile departed, leaving Priscilla cheered in spite of herself, and humbled as she thought how Austin, hard-working student as he was, was not only trying to lead his own brother, but others also, into the kingdom of God, whilst she, self-absorbed and self-seeking, had hindered rather than helped others from entering therein. She had grieved her father, neglected her brothers, and forgotten her God.

Was it too late to amend her ways? A voice seemed to say, "Not yet, not yet: turn ye, turn ye; why will ye die? Call upon me in the day of trouble." And she did. As a little child Priscilla Warner entered the kingdom of God that day, and took hold of Christ's strength and power to overcome her selfishness, and enable her to do the work God had given her to do, and in so doing to help on the coming of his kingdom.

"Thy kingdom come."

"THY KINGDOM COME."