“Now, boys, you must attend carefully,” said Sophy, when they were seated; “because there are many wonderful things in the chapter. I read it last night by the firelight after you were all in bed; and I want each of you to tell me which part you think most wonderful. You must begin, Will, and then Ned; and then I’ll read your verses over after you, so that you may understand them.”

For the two little lads could make but little of anything they read themselves as yet, though they listened with pleasure to the reading of their sister. And, besides, the double reading would help to pass the time and make her brothers contented in the house.

Mrs Morely was beguiled from the indulgence of her own sad thoughts, first as she watched the little girl’s grave, motherly ways with her brothers, and then by listening to the words they were reading. First, there was the story of the man who had his dwelling in the tombs. They read on slowly and gravely, Sophy reading each verse again, except when it was John’s turn, till they came to the eighth, “For He said unto him, Come out of the man, thou unclean spirit.”

“And of course he came out of him,” exclaimed Sophy. “For Jesus can do anything—yes, anything. Think of the most difficult thing in the world—Jesus could do it, as easy as I can do this.” And she stooped and touched her lips to little Will’s brow. The children paused to think about it, and so did the mother.

“Come out of him, thou unclean spirit.”

Was it true? Had the unclean spirit obeyed the voice of Jesus then, and was that voice less powerful now? Surely not. To her He seemed far away, and yet He was near. It came upon her, as it had never come before, how if ever her husband was saved it must be through God’s power and grace. If ever her husband was to be saved from the love of strong drink, it must be through a Divine power that should cleanse him and keep him and dwell in him for ever. Even the power of the Holy Ghost, which could convert his heart, and make him “a new creature in Christ Jesus.”

“Sitting, and clothed, and in his right mind,” spelt out little Will, slowly; and Sophy repeated, “clothed, and in his right mind.”

The mother’s soul went up in an agony of prayer for her husband, that he might be saved from suffering and shame, and be found “in his right mind,” “sitting at the feet of Jesus.”

“Surely He can do it! Surely He will do it! Oh, if I were not so faithless—so unworthy!”

Still the reading went on, and she listened to the twenty-eighth verse: “For she said, If I may touch but His clothes, I shall be whole.”

“Lord, give me that poor woman’s faith, that I may trust and be blessed as she was,” she entreated, covering her face, that her children might not wonder at seeing her so moved. She seemed to see the Saviour now. She cast herself at His feet, “fearing and trembling.” Surely He would say to her, as to that other, “Go in peace!”

And still they read on, how Jesus went to the ruler’s house, and how, having put the unbelieving people out, He took the maiden’s hand, and cried, “I say unto thee, Arise. And straightway the damsel arose.”

“Of course she arose,” said Sophy. “It made no matter that she was dead; because, you know, it was Jesus who said it. Think of all these wonderful things!”

“Wonderful indeed! Oh, for faith! Lord, I believe; help Thou mine unbelief!” prayed the poor mother—her face still covered. Sophy thought she slept, and sent her little brothers out for a while, cold as it was, that she might be quiet; and then she went about the house, softly doing what was to be done. In a little while she brought in her mother’s cup of tea; and, as the light fell on her face, she said, cheerfully, “Your sleep must have done you good, mother. You look better.”

“Something has done me good, I think, love,” said her mother, kissing the little girl’s upturned face. “You are looking pale and weary. I hope I shall soon be well now.”

“I hope so, mother,—not that I am tired; but it will be good to see you up again.”

Still it grew more bitterly cold. The nails and the boards of the old house cracked so often, and with such violence, that the children grew terrified lest it should fall upon them.

As for Sophy, the thought that she ought to brave the bitter cold and all those mountainous drifts, never left her for a moment. She had been hoping all along that the expected food night come. But the fear of actual want was now drawing nearer every moment; and soon, she knew, she would have no choice but to go.

That night she divided into two parts the small quantity of meal that remained. One part she put aside for the morning, and of the other she made for her brothers’ supper some thin gruel, instead of their usual hearty porridge. The hungry little lads eyed with undisguised discontent the not very savoury mess; but, fortunately, the table was laid in the corner of the room most distant from their mother’s bed, and their murmurs were unheard by her.

“Now, boys, I have something to say to you,” began Sophy, gravely. “There is not much supper; but you must be content with it. We shall be sure to have something more to-morrow. If the things don’t come to-night, I shall go myself to the village to-morrow, to see what has become of them. At any rate, we must not fret mother about it. It will be all right to-morrow, you may be sure.”

She made quite merry over little Will’s fears that the things might never come, and that they all might starve, as sometimes children did in books. She laughed at him, and made him laugh at himself. But, though Sophy spoke hopefully to her brothers, she had her own troubled thoughts to struggle with still. That was a long, long night to her, and to her mother too. Though Mrs Morely did not know how nearly they were at the end of their stores, she knew they could not last long; and the thought would come back, What if there was nothing awaiting them in the village? What if her husband had fallen again? She could not hope for immediate help from him, even if he were to hold firm after his arrival in Montreal and get immediate employment. How were the next few weeks to be got through? She thought and planned, till she grew weary and discouraged; but she never quite let go of the hope that had come to her through the children’s reading in the afternoon. He who had cast out devils, He who had raised the dead, could He not also save her husband? He who had been merciful to the poor woman who trusted in Him, would He not be merciful to her? Was not His love unchanged, and were not His promises the same yesterday, and to-day, and for ever? She clung to the thoughts of the wonderful works of Jesus, going over and over them in her mind, turning the poor woman’s words into prayer to suit her own case; and so the night wore away.

Sophy slept now and then; but she might just as well have kept awake, for in her dreams she fancied she was lost in the snow, and that she was struggling on through it with the baby in her arms. The night seemed as long as a whole winter to her, she told her mother afterwards; but it came to an end at last.

The first thing that Mrs Morely saw, on waking from a momentary slumber, was her little daughter taking a coverlet from the bed to fasten it over the low window. She must have fallen asleep again; for the next thing she saw was Sophy standing by her bed, with a cup of tea and a bit of toast in her hand. There was a small, bright fire on the hearth; but there was no other light in the room. It seemed early to her; but the children were all awake, and clamouring to be allowed to rise, notwithstanding their sister’s entreaties that they would lie still till the room was warm. But little Harry was cold and hungry, and would not be persuaded; and at last he made a rush towards his mother’s bed. In passing the window he caught hold of the coverlet that hung over it; and down it fell, and the