yes, sir! I left her this morning."
"What is your name?"
"Ellen Montgomery."
"Is your mother obliged to go to Europe for her health?"
"Oh yes, sir; nothing else would have made her go, but the doctor said she would not live long if she didn't go, and that would cure her."
"Then you hope to see her come back by-and-by, don't you?"
"Oh yes, sir; but it won't be this great, great, long while; it seems to me as if it was for ever."
"Ellen, do you know who it is that sends sickness and trouble upon us?"
"Yes, sir, I know; but I don't feel that that makes it any easier."
"Do you know why He sends it? He is the God of love—He does not trouble us willingly—He has said so;—why does He ever make us suffer? do you know?"
"No, sir."
"Sometimes He sees that if He lets them alone, His children will love some dear thing on the earth better than Himself, and He knows they will not be happy if they do so; and then, because He loves them, He takes it away—perhaps it is a dear mother, or a dear daughter—or else He hinders their enjoyment of it; that they may remember Him, and give their whole hearts to Him. He wants their whole hearts, that He may bless them. Are you one of His children, Ellen?"
"No, sir," said Ellen, with swimming eyes, but cast down to the ground.
"How do you know that you are not?"
"Because I do not love the Saviour."
"Do you not love Him, Ellen?"
"I am afraid not, sir."
"Why are you afraid not? what makes you think so?"
"Mamma said I could not love Him at all if I did not love Him best; and oh, sir," said Ellen, weeping, "I do love mamma a great deal better."
"You love your mother better than you do the Saviour?"
"Oh yes, sir," said Ellen; "how can I help it?"
"Then if He had left you your mother, Ellen, you would never have cared or thought about Him?"
Ellen was silent.
"Is it so?—would you, do you think?"
"I don't know, sir," said Ellen, weeping again; "oh, sir, how can I help it?"
"Then, Ellen, can you not see the love of your Heavenly Father in this trial? He saw that His little child was in danger of forgetting Him, and He loved you, Ellen; and so He has taken your dear mother, and sent you away where you will have no one to look to but Him; and now He says to you, 'My daughter, give Me thy heart.' Will you do it, Ellen?"
Ellen wept exceedingly while the gentleman was saying these words, clasping his hands still in both hers; but she made no answer. He waited till she had become calmer, and then went on in a low tone—
"What is the reason that you do not love the Saviour, my child?"
"Mamma says it is because my heart is so hard."
"That is true; but you do not know how good and how lovely He is, or you could not help loving Him. Do you often think of Him, and think much of Him, and ask Him to show you Himself that you may love Him?"
"No, sir," said Ellen, "not often."
"You pray to Him, don't you?"
"Yes, sir; but not so."
"But you ought to pray to Him so. We are all blind by nature, Ellen;—we are all hard-hearted; none of us can see Him or love Him unless He opens our eyes and touches our hearts; but He has promised to do this for those that seek Him. Do you remember what the blind man said when Jesus asked him what He should do for him?—he answered, 'Lord, that I may receive my sight!' That ought to be your prayer now, and mine too; and the Lord is just as ready to hear us as He was to hear the poor blind man; and you know He cured him. Will you ask Him, Ellen?"
A smile was almost struggling through Ellen's tears as she lifted her face to that of her friend, but she instantly looked down again.
"Shall I put you in mind, Ellen, of some things about Christ that ought to make you love Him with all your heart?"
"Oh yes, sir! if you please."
"Then tell me first what it is that makes you love your mother so much?"
"Oh, I can't tell you, sir;—everything, I think."
"I suppose the great thing is that she loves you so much?"
"Oh yes, sir," said Ellen strongly.
"But how do you know that she loves you? how has she shown it?"
Ellen looked at him, but could give no answer; it seemed to her that she must bring the whole experience of her life before him to form one.
"I suppose," said her friend, "that, to begin with the smallest thing, she has always been watchfully careful to provide everything that could be useful or necessary for you; she never forgot your wants, or was careless about them?"
"No indeed, sir."
"And perhaps you recollect that she never minded trouble or expense or pain where your good was concerned;—she would sacrifice her own pleasure at any time for yours!"
Ellen's eyes gave a quick and strong answer to this, but she said nothing.
"And in all your griefs and pleasures you were sure of finding her ready and willing to feel with you and for you, and to help you if she could? And in all the times you have seen her tired, no fatigue ever wore out her patience, nor any naughtiness of yours ever lessened her love; she could not be weary of waiting upon you when you were sick, nor of bearing with you when you forgot your duty—more ready always to receive you than you to return. Isn't it so?"
"Oh yes, sir."
"And you can recollect a great many words and looks of kindness and love—many and many endeavours to teach you and lead you in the right way—all showing the strongest desire for your happiness in this world, and in the next?"
"Oh yes, sir," said Ellen tearfully; and then added, "do you know my mother, sir?"
"No," said he, smiling, "not at all; but my own mother has been in many things like this to me, and I judged yours might have been such to you. Have I described her right?"
"Yes indeed, sir," said Ellen, "exactly."
"And in return for all this, you have given this dear mother the love and gratitude of your whole heart, haven't you?"
"Indeed I have, sir;" and Ellen's face said it more than her words.
"You are very right," he said gravely, "to love such a mother—to give her all possible duty and affection; she deserves it. But, Ellen, in all these very things I have been
