as on other days, for too much time to prepare is about as bad as too little. And then, too, we sometimes forget over Sunday, what we have studied for Monday; but, it is better not to know the lessons on Monday, than to study them on Sunday. Sunday is the Lord's day. The best way of all, however, is to study on Friday and Saturday nights, and then get up a little earlier on Monday morning and review before school time.

Saturday is an off day generally. Girls have a good deal of work to do about the house and boys have a good deal to do about the barn, and sometimes they have to work pretty hard.

Charlie had finished his chores as soon as he could that day and was in the house.

Bessie was very busy fixing her dollies' dresses, for she had five dollies, and they always were so hard on their clothes.

"Boys will be boys," grown up people often say, and Charlie oftentimes would give vent to his boyish nature by just teasing whoever would be teased. He teased Bessie a good deal, and mamma too. He made Dash, his dog, stand in the corner.

He would hide in the evening when his papa came home, until he would hear what he would say upon missing him, then come out from behind the stove, behind the door, or under the table, laughing heartily.

On this particular Saturday, Charlie was through with his work, and while he was helping his mother a good deal in the house, he took to teasing her.

Presently she said, "Charlie, don't do that, for it is not right."

He said nothing to this correction, but went quietly out of the house.

After a little while he came hurriedly in again saying: "Mamma, you said I was doing wrong. I went out to the barn, and crawled up into the hay mow, and I prayed to God to forgive me, for I don't want to do wrong. Will He forgive me, mamma, and will you?"

"Certainly I will forgive you, Charlie, and God will too. Try not to do it any more," answered his mother, as she was wondering if she had not spoken too harshly to her boy.

Some schoolmates came in then and they all went down to the swing under the apple tree, where they had a good time together.

After they all had a turn swinging, they played "catcher" around the house, and "hide and seek," and other games as all children know. At about five o'clock the little visitors all went home.

Some men passed along the road talking very loud and swearing. One of them had been drinking. Charlie and Bessie were looking at their mother as she was doing some evening's work when, in a very thoughtful mood, Charlie said: "Mamma, don't you wish you'd 'a' never had any children?"

"No, Charlie. Why?" said she.

"Well, so many people are so bad,—swearing and getting drunk. Suppose I should turn out that way. Really, I wish I'd die while I'm little."

"So do I," said Bessie.

"Why children, children, you must not talk that way. What would your papa and I do?" said their mother, almost choking on her words, for Charlie had said that a number of times before. "Who made you?" she asked.

"God" they answered.

"Well then," continued their mamma, "you ought to want to live as long as you can, so you could serve Him more. He wants us to do all the good we can."

Both children went into the sitting room, and Charlie got his little account book and figured up how much money he had on interest, and how much the interest was, and counted how much he had in his bank, and then added it all up together. "Bessie" he said, "when I get big I'm going to go to college and pay my own way. See if I don't." Then they played together till they got into a little difficulty, and both ran out to "tell mamma" all about it.

That night Bessie did not go to sleep as soon as usual. 'Twas the same the night before. She seemed troubled. Her mamma thought she was sick. Presently Charlie suggested, "Mamma, I'll bet I know what's the matter with Bessie."

"Well, why don't you tell me, Charlie? I do want to know," said their mamma.

"Bessie wants to join the church," he replied, and his little sister began crying in earnest, and soon cried herself to sleep.

CHAPTER VII.

CHARLIE'S LAST DAYS.

That much dreaded disease, scarlet fever, was the unwelcome visitor to many homes. Bessie was taken by it. While she was ill, Charlie was kept from school, lest other children should take it of him. Often he would steal over to the school house during school hours, and peep in at the window, unobserved, to learn who stood first in his classes. He often watched the spelling class as they stood up in recitation, could tell each pupils' standing, but he himself dared not enter. Those were long, long weeks for Charlie, that Bessie's illness continued. She grew very, very sick. Sometimes it seemed her little life was suspended on a silken thread,—a touch might cause it to snap, and she would be gone forever.

Children converted are children still. Charlie was a boy, although a Christian. Often he came softly into the house, and when he would meet his mamma out of the sick room, he would say, "Don't you wish you had left Bessie be baptized when she wanted to? Suppose she should die." And his poor mother, almost broken down with care for her little girl, was made sick at heart by questions like that.

On the doctor's daily visit Charlie met him at the gate, and would tie his horse for him, and then come with him into the house.

Bessie had lain ill already four weeks. On Tuesday morning the doctor tied his horse himself and came in alone. Charlie was sick. The doctor said to him, "Well, Charlie, you've got it now. Does it scare you?"

"No sir, it don't scare me," he said, "but I hope I won't have to be sick as long as Bessie."

Both were soon hanging in the balances, Bessie in one room, Charlie in another. Charlie wanted to be taken over into Bessie's room, that they both might be sick together.

Day and night the two little patients were closely watched. Charlie was heard making a noise, and they listened to catch the voice. He was suffering great pain but humming the tune in the hymnal, number 118,—not saying the words, but just humming the tune. Often he would ease his pain with this heaven medicine. Twice he was heard to speak distinctly. Once he said "Lord" and again it was "heaven." His lips would move but no sound was heard. The sound was heard in heaven, I suppose. Angels responded to the call of that little child of God. On Friday morning, even before the rays of morning light began to come, his spirit was borne away to be with Jesus in the heavenly land.

In the morning Bessie's papa was sitting by her bedside, looking sadly on the little form of his only child. "Papa," she said "why don't you have the door open in Charlie's room? He'll be so lonely with the door shut." But he made no reply. "Papa," she continued "why do you stay here with me? Take care of Charlie. I'm afraid he's going to die."

Little by little her papa told her then, all about it, and she bathed her fevered pillow with her tears.

The doctor came. He knew the fact without being told, and he sat down and wept.

Sunday, Charlie's little form was laid