When we go to Oldbury, But I must go. to any one if he would let the beer alone. "Yes; we won't keep you any longer," said Ida. "That is an excellent idea of yours, about learning the Gospels by heart. Good-night, little one." "I believe that aunt of hers is really Kathleen Joyce," said Amity as she and Ida turned homeward. "So do I. And I believe, moreover, that she is the child's mother. I do wish aunt Barbara could see her; but I don't know what excuse she could make for forcing herself in, especially as we have no proof that the poor thing is ill-treated." "Miss Celia says she screams dreadfully at times, and that the neighbors have talked of interfering," remarked Amity. "If they should, something might be done. At any rate, it will be a comfort to aunt Barbara to know that the poor thing is kindly treated." As Kit came down the hill behind her uncle's house, she stopped and listened as the sound of wild and piercing screams, poured forth in quick succession, fell on her ear. "Aunt Martha is bad again," she thought; and, quickening her steps, she reached the house, and entered her aunt's bedroom. The poor woman was sitting up in bed, uttering scream upon scream, and making frantic efforts to escape from her husband's arms, and throw herself on the floor; while he and Symantha strove in vain to soothe her. "What shall we do?" said Phin, glancing at his daughter with a look almost of despair. "She will hurt herself, and rouse the neighbors besides." "Let me try," said Kit, unable to keep quiet any longer. An idea had darted into her head which she longed to put in practice. "Well, do," said Symantha. "You can't do any harm. She is as bad as she can be, now." Kit seated herself on the side of the bed, and, without a word of what she was about to do, she began singing, "Jesus, lover of my soul," to the tender, pleading music of the Spanish Hymn. The poor woman's screams and struggles ceased She leaned back on her husband's breast, and listened like one entranced till Kit sang the hymn all through. at once. "I used to sing that," said she when Kit was silent. "I used to sing a great many hymns before they took away my Lord. But they have taken Him away, they have taken Him away; and I know not where they have laid Him." "Oh, no, aunt Martha!" said Kit cheerfully. "They haven't taken Him away: nobody could do that. You know Mary thought they had, but she was mistaken. He had risen from the dead, and was close by her all the time, only it was so dark she couldn't see to tell who it was. But when He spoke to her, then she knew Him." "But He won't speak to me," said the invalid. "He never speaks to me now. Do you think He ever will?" "Yes, I know He will. I am going to read you what He says." And forgetting every thing in her desire to comfort the sufferer, forgetting even her fears for her chiefest treasure, Kit took her precious Testament from her pocket; and, opening it at random, she began to read from the third chapter of St. John. Mrs. Mallory listened with evident pleasure. Presently, however, her eyelids began to droop, her fingers ceased to pick at the bed-clothes, her head sank back. She had fallen into a quiet slumber. Phin gently laid her head on the pillow, while Symantha darkened the window. Presently he went to the door, and beckoned out Kit, who was still reading in subdued tones. Kit obeyed, though she was terribly frightened when she thought of what she had done. "But I don't care," she said. "I know it was right." To her amazement, Phin lifted her in his arms, and kissed her. "You are a good girl, Kit. You shall do as you like. You may go to school, and to meeting too, if you want to." "O uncle Phin! do you mean it ?" Yes, I mean it. There, child, don't strangle me," as Kit threw her arms round his neck in a vehement hug. “And may I really go to meeting and to Sunday school?" asked Kit. "I didn't say any thing about However, I don't care," said Phin. Sunday school. "Yes, you may go, though I don't see what pleasure you find in it." |