It was a very dismal room; no one could call it anything else. The window was very small, several of the panes patched together with pieces of brown paper, and the dust and the spiders had been very busy trying how much sunshine they could keep from coming into the gloomy little room.

Yet one could hardly blame poor Mrs. Blyth very much, for she had a hard life and plenty to do. A drunken husband, a mangle, and five children! No wonder that she had not time to look after the spiders!

The mangle filled up at least half of the room, and from early morning till late at night it was going backwards and forwards, almost without stopping. When Mrs. Blyth was making dinner ready, Angel turned; and when Angel was eating her dinner with her little brothers and sisters, Mrs. Blyth turned again. And in this way the mangle was almost always going; and old Mrs. Sawyer, lying on her bed next door, would quite have missed the noise it made rolling backwards and forwards, which acted as a kind of lullaby to her the whole week long.

Little Angel was standing by the door with a large clothes-basket in her arms, waiting for it to be filled. She was the eldest of the five children, and she was not quite seven years old. She was very small, and her little figure was a good deal bent with turning the heavy mangle. She had to stand on a stool to turn it, and it made her back ache. But that did not matter,—the mangle must be turned, or they would have no dinner to-morrow.

And now the clothes must be carried home; and they were a very heavy load.

"Is all these for Mrs. Douglas, mother?" said little Angel, when the flannels, and dusters, and towels, and stockings were all piled carefully into the basket.

"Yes, child; there's just six and a half dozen. Now mind you don't spill any of them."

Little Angel tried to lift the great basket, but it was more than she could manage; the blood rushed into her little pale face with the effort.

"Tim will help you," said her mother. "Go and call him; I'll give him a slice of treacle and bread, if he'll come."

Tim, who was a neighbour's little boy, agreed to the bargain, and the two children started together.

On they toiled through the wet and muddy streets, almost without speaking, until little Angel paused before a large house in one of the grander streets of that small town.

"Who lives here?" said Tim, as he glanced up at the bow windows and at the great door with pillars on each side of it.

"This is where we're going," said Angel. "These are Mrs. Douglas's clothes. Help me to carry them in."

So the children went by a long passage to the back door.

They rang twice before any one came to open it; and then the cook came to the door with a very red face, and with very white hands, for she was in the midst of baking.

"You'll have to wait a minute or two," she said; "come inside and put your basket down; it's Miss Ellie's birthday, and I'm very busy. I'll take them out of the basket when these cakes are done."

The two children stood on the mat by the kitchen door, and looked around them. There was a large fire, and the cook was taking a number of little cakes from the oven shelf. They were curious little cakes, of all shapes and sizes. Some were round, some square, some diamond-shaped: some were like birds, some like fishes, some like leaves.

The children peered curiously at them as the cook arranged them on tiny plates, not larger than the inside of Angel's little hand. She was in the midst of doing this when the kitchen door opened, and a little girl ran in. She was much younger than Angel, and she was dressed in a white frock and blue sash. In her arms was a beautiful doll, more beautiful than any doll Angel had ever seen except in a toy-shop window.

The little girl ran quickly into the kitchen; but when she saw the children she looked shyly at them, and crept up to cook's side.

"Now, Miss Ellie," said cook, "are you come to look at your cakes?" and she lifted the little girl upon a stool, that she might stand by and watch what she was doing.

"Are all these for my birthday?" said the child.

"Yes, every one of them," said cook.

"Oh, what a great many! Aren't there a great many, cook?"

"Yes; but I suppose there's plenty of little folks to eat them," said cook, laughing.

"Oh yes," said the child; "there's me, and Alice, and Fanny, and Jemmy; and then there's Nellie Rogers and Joe Rogers, and little Eva; and there's Charlie and Willie Campbell. And then there are all my dollies: they must come to my birthday tea, mustn't they, cook?"

"Oh, of course," said cook; "it would never do to leave them out. Is that a new one, Miss Ellie?"

"Yes; Uncle Harry gave her to me for a birthday present. Isn't she nice? She has curls, cook!"

"Oh, she is a beauty!" said cook. "What's her name?"

"I don't know," said the child; "I can't think what would be the nicest name. What would you call her if she was your dolly, cook?"

"Oh, Emma, or Sarah, or Jane, or something of that sort," said cook, laughing.

"I don't think those are very pretty names," said the little girl; "I would like her to have quite a new name, that I never heard before."

"Well, we must think about it," said cook. "I must go and take the clothes out now, and let these children go."

"Who is that little girl, cook," whispered the child.

"She has brought the clothes from the mangle: her mother mangles them."

"What is her name, cook?" whispered Ellie again.

"I don't know, Miss Ellie; you'd better ask her," said cook.

"You ask her, please, cook," whispered the child again.

So cook turned to the children, and asked them what were their names.

"He's Tim, ma'am," said the little girl, pointing at the boy, standing shyly with his finger in his mouth; "and I'm Angel."

"Oh, cook!" whispered little Ellie, "please, please let me see her wings. Are they tucked up under her shawl? Oh, please do let me see them!"

But the cook did nothing but laugh.

"However did you come by such an outlandish name?" she said, turning to little Angel.

"Please, ma'am, it's Angel for short," said the child.

"And what is it for long?"

"It's Angelina, please, ma'am, for long. My mother read it in a penny number before she was married; and Angelina lived in a palace, please, ma'am, and had gold shoes and a carriage with six horses, my mother said."

"Well, to be sure!" said cook. "And so she gave you that heathenish name, when you haven't got gold shoes, nor a carriage, nor six horses. Well, to be sure!"

"Oh, cook!" said little Ellie, "I think it's a beautiful name: the angels live in heaven."

"She doesn't live there, poor little soul!" said cook compassionately; "I'll be bound it's anything but heaven where she lives. Her father drinks, and her mother has five of them."

"Cook," whispered the child again, "would she like one of my birthday cakes?"

"I should think so," said cook. "Should we give her one?"

And, to Angel's great astonishment, she found herself the sole owner and possessor of a pastry bird, a fish, a star, and a heart; while little Tim was made equally rich.

The children were almost too pleased to say "Thank you!"

"There, now! The basket's ready," said cook; "and here's the money for your mother."

Angel and Tim took up the basket, and turned to go.

"Good-bye, little Angel," said the child shyly; "I do wish you had some wings."

"Cook, don't you think Angelina would be a pretty name for my dolly?" they heard her saying as they went down the steps.

"Ay, it was nice in there!" said Tim, as they walked homewards in the dirty, dismal, muddy streets. "I wish I had a birthday."

"Did you ever have one?" asked Angel; "I never did."

"Yes, one," said Tim; "only once, and that was a long, long time ago."

"What is a birthday?" said Angel.

"It's a nice sort of a day!" said Tim, "When everybody's good to you, and gives you things. One day mother let me have a birthday."

"And what was it like?" said little Angel.

"Oh, the kitchen was swept all clean and tidy, and mother never scolded me once all day, and she made a cake for tea that had lots of currants in it—not just one in each slice, like the cake we have on Sundays. And father gave me a penny and a packet of goodies for my very own! That's the only birthday I ever had. Mother says she hasn't any time for birthdays now."

"I wonder if I shall ever have a birthday," said little Angel with a sigh, as she went in to turn the mangle once more.

[CHAPTER II]

WHO KNOCKS?

THE mangle went on, backwards and forwards, until very late that night. Little Angel's arms and back ached terribly when the work was finished and she and her mother crept close to the flickering fire.

"Now go to bed, Angel," said her mother.

"Oh, mother, please let me stop a little longer with you. Are you going to sit up?"

"Yes, I must wait till he comes," said the mother wearily, glancing at the large clock which was ticking solemnly in the corner of the little kitchen. "Oh dear, oh dear! what a lot of trouble there is in the world!"

"Mother," said little Angel suddenly, "did you ever have a birthday?"

Mrs. Blyth did not answer at first, but bent lower over the fire. Little Angel fancied she was crying.

"Yes," she said at last, "when I was a little girl, and my father was alive. I wish I was a little girl now."

"Was it so very nice having a birthday, mother?"

"It was very nice having a father," said Mrs. Blyth. "Ay, and he was a good father too; he was a real good man, was your grandfather, Angel."

"What did you do on your birthday, mother?" asked the child.

"Oh, it was a real happy day. My mother made a plum-pudding for us, and my father took us all to the park for a walk after tea. And then, he used always to give me a present. I have one of them yet."

"Where is it, mother?" said little Angel; "do let me see it."

"Oh, it's up on that shelf," said her mother, pointing to some little shelves at the top of the kitchen. "It's a shame to let it lie there when I promised him to read it every day. But what can a woman do that's got a drunken husband, five children, and a mangle?" she said, more to herself than to the child.

"Please let me look at your birthday present, mother," said little Angel again.

Mrs. Blyth stood upon one of the broken chairs, and took down from the shelf an old and shabby book. The cover was half off, and it was thickly coated with dust. One of the spiders had been busy in its neighbourhood, and had fastened one end of a large cobweb to its cover.

She wiped it with her dirty apron, and handed it to the child; then she sat down again, and bent over the fire.

"Here's writing at the beginning, mother," said Angel; "what does it say?"

Mrs. Blyth took the book, and a tear fell on the soiled leaves of the Bible as she opened it.

"Given to Emily Brownlow by her dear Father on her birthday, with the hope that she will remember her promise."

"And what was the promise, mother!"

"That I would read it, child," said her mother shortly.

"But you never do read it, mother."

"No, it's a shame," said her mother; "I must begin."

"Read me just one little bit before I go to bed," said Angel, sitting on the stool at her mother's feet.

Mrs. Blyth turned over the leaves, and in a mechanical way began to read the first verse on which her eye fell.

"'Behold, I stand at the door and knock: if any man hear My voice, and open the door, I will come in to him, and will sup with him, and he with Me.'"

"Who is knocking, mother?" asked Angel.

"It means Jesus Christ, I think," said her mother. "'Behold, I stand at the door and knock.' I expect it means Jesus. I learnt a hymn at the Sunday school about it. I went to the Sunday school when my father was alive. I remember it began—"

"Behold a Stranger at the door,
He gently knocks—has knocked before;"

"and then—I can't remember what came next—something about using no other friend so ill."

"I never heard Him knock," said Angel; "does He come when I'm in bed at night?"

"No," said her mother; "I don't think it's that door He knocks at. I don't rightly know what it means."

"Read it again, please, mother."

So Mrs. Blyth read the text again.

"I hope He won't come in to-night," said little Angel, when she had finished.

"Why not, child?" asked her mother.

"Because we've got nothing for supper to-night, only those crusts Billy and Tommy left at tea. I'm afraid He wouldn't like those."

"Oh, it doesn't mean He's really coming to supper," said the mother; "I wish I could remember what it does mean. But it's lots of years since I read it. My father died when I was only ten, and nobody never took any trouble with me afterwards."

Little Angel was very sleepy now, so her mother took her upstairs, and put her into the bed with her little brothers and sisters, and then she sat down on a chair beside her, and buried her face in her hands. Recollections of a father's love and of a father's teaching were coming into that poor, ignorant mind. Imperfect, childish recollections they were, and yet quite distinct enough to make her sigh for what had been and for what might have been.

And so she sat, this poor wife, as the clock ticked on and the children slept. Then, after long hours of waiting, came a great noise at the door, and she rose, trembling, to open it.

Little Angel started from her sleep, and, sitting up in bed, called out, "Mother, He's come; I heard Him knock."

"Yes," said her mother, who was lighting the candle, "I'm going to let him in."

"Oh, please let me go down and see Him."

"No, nonsense, child," said her mother; "your father's sure to be in drink. I'll get him quickly to bed."

"Oh, dear!" said little Angel, in a disappointed voice, as she lay down, "I thought it was Jesus knocking at the door!"

[CHAPTER III]

LITTLE ELLIE'S SISTER

THE next week there were more clothes to be taken home to Mrs. Douglas's. It was not a heavy load this time, and little Angel went alone. She was passing under one of the bow windows on her way to the passage leading to the kitchen door, when she heard a loud tapping on the pane. She looked up, and there was little Ellie nodding to her, and kissing her hand, and holding up the new doll for her to see.

And when cook opened the kitchen door, and Angel came in with the clothes, little Ellie was just coming in at the other door.

"Please, cook," said the child, "Mabel wants to see the little Angel."

"Bless us!" said cook, laughing. "I'd clean forgot about the child's name. I couldn't think what angel it was at first. You take her, Miss Ellie."

"Please, come," said the little girl; and she held out her tiny hand for Angel to take.

Little Angel had never seen such a beautiful house. They went up a long easy staircase, very different from the one Angel climbed at night when she went to bed. They passed a splendid window, with pretty coloured glass in it, which threw all sorts of lovely colours on the stairs. And the carpet was so soft that Angel could not hear the sound of her own feet.

At the top of the staircase was a long passage, with doors at both sides of it. Ellie opened one of these, and led Angel into a pretty little sitting-room. A bright fire was burning in the grate, and by the side of the fire was a sofa. On this sofa Angel saw a young lady lying, with a very sweet and gentle face. She looked very ill and tired, Angel thought, and had such a kind face that she could not feel afraid of her.

"This is the little Angel, Mabel," said little Ellie, as she took her by the hand to her sister's couch.

"Bring a stool for her to sit on, Ellie. I'm very glad to see you, little Angel."

"Yes; but, Mabel, cook says she hasn't any wings, and she doesn't think she lives in heaven. She says it's only her name."

"Yes," said her sister; "I understand. But some day, I hope she will live in heaven. Do you think you will, little Angel?"

"I hope so, please, ma'am," said Angel.

"But, if you are ever to live in heaven with the Lord Jesus, you must learn to love Him now," said the young lady.

"Is that the door He knocks at?" said Angel, starting from her seat, as a sudden thought seized her.

"What do you mean, little Angel?"

"The door with the great pillars on each side of it, and the brass bell and knocker; is it there He knocks every night?"

"I don't quite understand what you mean," said Mabel gently. "Can you tell me a little more about it?"

"My mother read it in the Bible last night, and it said He knocked at a door and wanted to come in, and mother said she didn't think it meant our door."

"Is this what you mean?" said the young lady. She took up a little Bible which lay beside her, and read aloud: "'Behold, I stand at the door, and knock.'"

"Yes, that's it," said Angel; "and my mother said she had clean forgot what it meant; but she thought it meant Jesus."

"Yes; your mother was quite right, little Angel; it is Jesus who is knocking at the door."

"Then it is this door with the pillars," said the child.

"No, not this door," said the young lady; "it means a door that belongs to you, little Angel. It is not a door that you can see or touch; it is the door of little Angel's heart. Jesus calls it a door, to show you what He means. He wants to come into your heart. He wants you to love Him, and to give your own little self to Him. This is what it means, little Angel."

The child looked as if she did not quite understand.

"Do you love your mother, little Angel?" asked the young lady.

"Oh yes, please, ma'am; very much."

"Then your mother is inside your heart. You love her with your heart, don't you?"

"Oh yes, please, ma'am; she does everything for me, does mother."

"But Jesus loves you better than your mother does; and He has done a great deal more for you than she has."

"Has He?" said little Angel simply.

"Yes, indeed He has. Do you know, He lived in heaven, where everything is beautiful and happy, and He left His home there and came to live down here. He lived a very sorrowful life. He was a poor man, little Angel. He had no home of His own, but went about from place to place, often very tired, and hungry, and faint. And people were very unkind to Him; they laughed at Him and hated Him, and threw stones at Him, and hunted Him from place to place; and at last, little Angel, He was nailed on a cross of wood, and they put a crown of thorns on His head."

"Oh yes, please, ma'am; mother has a picture of that. Jesus is on a cross, and some soldiers laughing at Him; it's in a book on the drawers-top that my father bought at a sale."

"Yes," said the young lady; "that was how He died; oh, such a cruel, painful death! And, little Angel, it was all for you!"

"All for me!" said the child.

"Yes, little Angel, all for you. For, if Jesus had not died, you could never, never have gone to heaven. Shall I tell you why?"

"Yes, please, ma'am," said the child.

"You could never have gone to heaven, because no one can go there who has done any wrong; only good and holy people can go there; all who have done anything wrong must be punished for it. And, little Angel, have you ever done anything wrong?"

"Yes," said little Angel, hanging down her head; "yes, please, ma'am, I have."

"Then you could never go to heaven, for God must punish sin. But Jesus is God, and He came and led that sorrowful life, and then died that dreadful death, that He might be punished instead of you—instead of you, little Angel. And now He says, 'I wonder if little Angel will love Me for dying for her? I will knock at the door of her heart, and see if she will let Me in, and love Me for what I have done for her, and be My little child!'"

Angel opened her eyes very wide, and looked earnestly at the young lady as she spoke.

"How old are you, little Angel?" she asked.

"Going on seven, ma'am," said Angel promptly.

"Then He has been waiting for you for years. Knocking—knocking, and you have never let Him in!"

"That's a long time!" said Angel.

"Yes; and still He does not give up knocking. He is waiting still; waiting for you to love Him; waiting for you to let Him in."

"He must be very tired," said Angel; "I wish I knew how to let Him in."

The young lady did not answer at once; she covered her face with her hand for a minute, and was quite still.

Then she said, "Little Angel, I have been praying to Him to help me to show you how to let Him into your heart. But I think, after all, the best way will be for you to ask Him yourself. Will you ask Him now?"

"I don't know how," said Angel; "I don't know what to say."

"When you pray, little Angel, you should talk to Jesus just as you are talking to me, and ask for just what you want. Kneel down by me, and I will help you."

Little Ellie, who had been listening in silence all this time, knelt down too, whilst her sister prayed.

"O Lord Jesus, show little Angel how to open the door of her heart to Thee! Grant that she may let Thee in, and not keep Thee waiting any longer. Oh, may she indeed be saved by Thee, and love Thee with all her heart, for all that Thou hast done for her! Amen."

"And now, little Angel," said Mabel, when the children rose from their knees, "when you get home you must ask Him yourself, and remember He ever listens to every word that you say."

Angel had a great deal to think of as she walked home that morning with her empty basket. She was very quiet all day as she was looking after the children and turning the mangle—so quiet that her mother asked her if she were ill. But Angel said, No, she was quite well, and turned the mangle quietly again. But when the other children were in bed, and she and her mother were alone, Angel said:

"Mother, do you know how old you are?"

"Dear me, let me see," said her mother. "I was just nineteen when I got married to your father. I know I was just nineteen then, because I remember my old aunt said, 'You're young enough, my lass, not twenty yet. You'd better not be in a hurry.' Well, I was nineteen then, and, let me see, I believe we've been married eight years next month. Nineteen and eight, what's that? Count it on your fingers, Angel."

"Twenty-seven, mother," said little Angel, when she had carefully counted it twice over. "Twenty-seven years old! Then Jesus has been knocking at your door twenty-seven years! What a long time!"

"Oh, you're after that again, are you?" said her mother. "I wish I could remember what it means."

"Miss Douglas told me," said Angel; and she repeated, as well as she could, the conversation in the little sitting-room.

"Well, to be sure," said the mother, "it's very wonderful to think He waits so long; I'm afraid I've been very bad to Him."

"Won't you let Him in to-night, mother?"

"Oh, child! I'm too busy," she said; "there's so much to do. There's the children, and your father, and the mangle to look after, and always dinner to cook, and things to clear away, and such lots of clothes to wash, and your father's shirts to iron. I've no time to be good, Angel."

"But Miss Douglas said if you don't let Him into your heart and love Him, you won't ever live with Him and the angels in heaven."

"Ah, well!" said the mother. "I suppose not; but there's lots of time yet. When baby gets a bit older, and Tom goes to school, I shall have a bit more time; and then, Angel, I can sit still a bit and think about it."

"Only, perhaps, as He's been knocking twenty-seven years," said Angel, "it's such a very long time, He may get tired of waiting, and walk away."

"Oh no! I hope not," said her mother; and she got up and bustled about the room, and sent Angel off to bed. She hoped the child would forget about it before morning.

But when she went upstairs, after a few minutes, to see if Angel was in bed, she found her kneeling in her nightgown before the window. There was no light in the room, but the blind was up, and the moonlight was streaming on the child's fair hair and clasped hands.

"She looks like one of the little angels in heaven," said the mother to herself.

Angel had not heard her mother come upstairs, so Mrs. Blyth stood quietly on the last step, and listened to Angel's little prayer.

"Oh, Jesus, please come in to-night! Oh it was very bad to keep You outside when You did all that for me! Oh, Jesus, please don't knock any longer, but just walk into my heart, and please never go away again? Amen."

And then Angel crept into bed, and her mother wiped her eyes, and came in and kissed her.

[CHAPTER IV]

THE LOUD KNOCK IN PLEASANT PLACE

"MOTHER! mother!" said little Angel, in the middle of the night, creeping over to the bed where her father and mother were asleep. "Mother, mother, there's a loud knock at our door!"

"Bless you, child," said the mother, "you're dreaming. Your father's been in long since. Go to bed again."

"No, mother, listen; there it is again."

This time Mrs. Blyth heard it, and even Mr. Blyth opened his eyes, and said, "What's that?"

Some one was knocking at the door as loudly as he could. Mrs. Blyth put on some clothes, lighted a candle, and went down stairs to see what it was.

When she came back her face was very white indeed. "Oh, Angel," she said, "it's Tim; his mother's dead! She went to bed quite well, and then Mr. Carter woke and heard her groaning, and she was dead in two minutes—before he could call anybody."

"Oh, mother," said little Angel, trembling, "how dreadful! She was washing all day yesterday, and I saw her put the shutters up just before I came to bed."

"Yes," said Mrs. Blyth; "I'm sure it's made me feel quite sick. I must go over and help them a bit, poor things."

Angel could not sleep any more that night. She lay awake thinking of poor Tim, who had no mother, and wondering if Mrs. Carter were in heaven with the angels. When her mother came back it was time to get up. Mrs. Blyth had been crying very much, and she went about her work almost without uttering a word.

But when she and Angel were turning the mangle, she said—

"Angel, do you remember what you said when you waked me last night? You said, 'Mother, there's a loud knock at our door.' I've never got those words out of my head since. All the time I was laying out poor Mrs. Carter I heard you, saying, 'There's a loud knock at our door, mother.' And when Mr. Carter told the doctor how well she had been all yesterday, and the doctor said, 'Yes, it's very sudden, very sudden indeed,' I heard you saying again, 'There's a loud knock at our door, mother.' And now, even when I'm turning the mangle, it seems to be saying those same words over and over again."

"Yes," she said, after a minute or two, "it's of no use me saying, 'I'm too busy, I can't let Him in just yet.' Death won't take that excuse when he knocks at the door."

That was a very dull day. Angel peeped out of the window, and saw the closed house opposite, and the darkened room upstairs where poor Mrs. Carter was lying. And then the man came to measure her for her coffin, and then Mr. Carter and his poor little motherless children came into Mrs. Blyth's house to get their dinner, and Mr. Carter cried all the time, and would hardly eat anything.

It was a very dismal day.

But after tea, as Angel was washing up the tea things, and her mother was folding the clothes for the mangle, an unusual sound was heard in the narrow court where they lived. It was the sound of singing—several voices singing.

In a moment, all in Pleasant Place had opened their doors or their windows and were looking out. They saw a young man standing in the middle of the court, and a little knot of people round him, with open books in their hands.

"What is it, mother?" asked little Angel, as Mrs. Blyth came into the room.

"That's young Mr. Douglas, Miss Douglas's brother," said her mother, in a whisper. "I've often seen him there when I've been to take the clothes home; he's one of the ministers here."

"Why, mother," said the child, as she listened to the singing, "they are singing your hymn—the hymn you learnt in the Sunday School."

"No," said her mother, "it isn't my hymn, but it's very like it."

"Knocking, knocking! Who is there?
Waiting, waiting, oh, how fair!
'Tis a Pilgrim, strange and kingly,
Never such was seen before;
Oh! My soul, for such a wonder,
Wilt thou not undo the door?"

"Eighteen doors in this court," said the young minister, looking round on the people, who were all peeping out at him. "Eighteen doors, and every one of them open!"

"Listen to-night to the story of a door—a closed door!"

"Here is a closed door, and some one standing outside it. He knocks at the door; He calls out to the one inside; then He waits, He listens. There is no sound within; no one comes to open the door."

"He knocks again; He calls again; He listens again. No one comes."

"Will He walk again? No, He waits still; He knocks once more; He calls again; He listens again. No answer."

"Surely the door must be bolted and barred so fast inside that it cannot be opened, or perhaps the owner of the house is out, or asleep, or deaf, and does not hear the knocking."

"But look a little longer. Some more people come up to the door and knock, and as soon as ever they knock they are admitted. They are let in, and the door is shut in the face of Him who has waited so long."

"Many times in the day that door is opened to all kinds of people; but it is always closed in the face of the One who still stands outside."

"Does He weary of standing there? No; night comes, but He goes on knocking, goes on calling, goes on listening for any answer from within."

"Who is He? Is He a beggar come to ask for money?"

"No, He is no beggar; for if you look you will see that His hands are full of presents for the one inside the house."

"Is He a rent collector come to demand that which is due to Him? No; for although the house really belongs to Him, He demands nothing, He only pleads for an entrance."

"Is He an enemy to the one inside? No; He is, on the contrary, his best friend, the One to whom he owes everything."

"What a strange thing that He is kept outside!"

"Is it a strange thing?" said the minister, looking earnestly at all the people. "Is it a strange thing? Then get up at once and let Him in, for it is at your door He is knocking."

"My door!" you say. "My door! What do you mean? No one is knocking at my door."

"No one? Oh, my friends! Did you hear no knock this morning at your door—your heart's door. When the neighbours came in and told you that one in that house, whom you had seen well and strong a few hours before, was now in eternity—oh, my friends! Was it not a knock?"

"Did not the Lord Jesus, your best Friend, knock then? Did He not call as well as knock? Did you not hear Him saying, 'Are you ready to die? Oh, let Me in before it is too late!'"

"That was a very loud knock, my friends; but it is not the only time He has knocked. Day after day, week after week, year after year, ever since you were little children, He has been knocking and waiting, and knocking and waiting for you to let Him in. That night when you were so ill, and the doctor told you that you might never get better, was He not knocking then?"

"And when your child died, and you stood by its open grave, was He not knocking then?"

"And these are only the great, startling knocks; there are many others which you do not hear—there is too much noise and bustle inside the house for their sound to reach you. Yet never a day passes that He does not knock in some way or other."

"But oh! Take care, for the day is coming—who can say how soon? When there will be a last knock, a last call; and then He will turn and walk away from the door, never to return."

"Oh, my friends! Why do you keep Him waiting outside? You let all others in. Your pleasures, your companions, your work,—all these knock at the door, and are let in at once. But you have no room for Christ."

"But oh! Remember, if there is no room for Christ in your heart, there will be no room for you in Christ's heaven."

"My friend, He is knocking now; it may be His last knock. He is calling now; it may be His last call."

"'Oh, let Me in.'" He cries, "'and I will make you happy; I am bringing you forgiveness, and peace, and joy, and rest, and all that you need. Oh, let Me in before it is too late! I have waited so patiently and so long, and still I wait. Will you not, even this night, undo the door?'"

When the little service was over the people went back into their houses, and Angel and her mother went on with their work. And as Angel wiped the cups and saucers, she sang softly to herself the chorus of the hymn—

"Oh! My soul, for such a wonder,
Wilt thou not undo the door?"

"Yes, I will!" said her mother suddenly, bursting into tears; "I will undo the door; I will keep Him waiting no longer."

[CHAPTER V]

ANGEL'S BIRTHDAY

IT was a bright, sunny morning, some weeks after that little service was held in Pleasant Place.

The sunbeams were streaming in at Mrs. Blyth's window, for the cobwebs and spiders had some time ago received notice to quit, and the dust had all been cleared away, and found no chance of returning.

Mrs. Blyth was a different woman. Her troubles and trials remained, and she had just as much to do, and just as many children to look after, but she herself was quite different. She had opened the door of her heart, and the Lord Jesus had come in. And He had brought sunshine with Him into that dark and ignorant heart. Life, instead of being a burden and a weariness, was now full of interest to Mrs. Blyth, because she was trying to do every little thing to please Jesus, who had done so much for her. Whether she was washing the children, or cleaning the house, or turning the mangle, she tried to do it all to please Him. She remembered that He was looking at her, and that He would be pleased if she did it well. It was wonderful how that thought helped her, and how it made the work easy and pleasant.

So, through the bright, clean window, the morning sunbeams were streaming on little Angel's head. Her mother was standing by her side, watching her as she lay asleep, and waiting for her to awake.

As soon as ever Angel opened her eyes, her mother said—

"Little Angel, do you know what to-day is?"

"No, mother," said Angel, rubbing her eyes, and sitting up in bed.

"It's your birthday, Angel; it is indeed!" said her mother. "I hunted it out in your grandmother's old Bible. It's the day you were born, just seven years ago!"

"And am I really going to have a birthday, mother?" said Angel, in a very astonished voice.

"Yes, a real good birthday," said her mother; "so get up and come downstairs, before any of it is gone."

Angel was not long in putting on her clothes and coming down. She found the table put quite ready for breakfast, with a clean tablecloth, and the mugs and plates set in order for her and her little brothers and sisters; and in a little jar in the middle of the table was a beautiful bunch of flowers. Real country flowers they were, evidently gathered from some pleasant cottage garden far away. There were stocks and mignonette, and southernwood, and sweetbrier, and a number of other flowers, the names of which neither Angel nor her mother knew.

"Oh mother, mother," said little Angel, "what a beautiful nosegay!"

"It's for you, Angel," said her mother: "for your birthday. I got it at the early market. My father always gave me a posy on my birthday."

"Oh, mother," said little Angel, "is it really for me?"

But that was not all, for by the side of Angel's plate she found a parcel. It was tied up in brown paper, and there was a thick piece of string round it, fastened tightly in so many knots that it took Angel a long time to open it. Her little hands quite shook with excitement when at last she took off the cover and looked inside. It was a little book, in a plain black binding.

"Oh, mother," said Angel, "what is it? Is it for my birthday?"

"Yes," said her mother; "look at the writing at the beginning. I'll read it to you."

It was very uneven writing, and very much blotted, for Mrs. Blyth was only a poor scholar; but little Angel did not notice this—it seemed very wonderful to her to be able to write at all.

Now, what was written in the little book was this:

"Given to little Angel by her dear mother; and she hopes she will promise to read it, and will keep her promise better than I did."

"But I can't read, mother," said Angel.

"No; but you must learn," said her mother. "I mean that you shall go to school regular now, Angel. Why, you're seven years old to-day!"

Poor little Angel's head was nearly turned; it was such a wonderful thing to have a birthday.

But the wonders of the day were not over yet; for when, after breakfast, Angel asked for the clothes to mangle, her mother said: "They're all done Angel; I'm just going to take them home. I've done a lot these three nights when you was in bed, that we might have a bit of a holiday to-day."

"A holiday, mother!" said Angel. "Oh, how nice! No mangling all day!"

"No mangling all day," repeated the mother, as if the thought were as pleasant to her as to Angel.

But the wonders of the day were not yet over.

"Angel," said her mother, as they were washing the children, "did you ever see the sea?"

Angel's Christmas, and, Little Dot

ANGEL'S CHRISTMAS

LITTLE DOT

[CHAPTER I]

[CHAPTER II]

[CHAPTER III]

[CHAPTER IV]

[CHAPTER V]