Bettys Bright Idea | Page 3

of sorrow, long suppressed, that shakes her weak

frame as she thinks that her husband is out of work, desperate,
discouraged, and tempted of the devil, that the rent is falling due, and
only the poor pay of her needle to meet it with. In one of those quick
flashes which concentrate through the imagination the sorrows of years,
she seems to see her little home broken up, her husband in the gutter,
her children turned into the street. At this moment there goes up from
her heart a despairing cry, such as a poor, hunted, tired-out creature
gives when brought to the last gasp of endurance. It was like the shriek
of the hare when the hounds are upon it. She clasps her hands and cries
out, "O my God, help me."
There was no voice of any that answered; there was no sound of
foot-fall on the staircase; no one entered the door; and yet that agonized
cry had reached the heart it was meant for. The Shining Ones were with
her; they stood, with faces full of tenderness, beaming down upon her;
they brought her a Christmas gift from Christ--the gift of trust. She
knew not from whence came the courage and rest that entered her soul;
but while her little ones stood wondering and silent, she turned and
drew to herself her well-worn Bible. Hands that she did not see guided
her as she turned the pages, and pointed the words: _He shall deliver
the needy when he crieth; the poor also and him that hath no helper. He
shall spare the poor and needy, and shall save the souls of the needy.
He shall redeem their soul from deceit and violence, and precious shall
their blood be in his sight._
She laid down her poor wan cheek on the merciful old book, as on her
mother's breast, and gave up all the tangled skein of life into the hands
of Infinite Pity. There seemed a consoling presence in the room, and
her tired heart found rest.
She wiped away her tears, kissed her children, and smiled upon them.
Then she rose, gathered up her finished work, and attired herself to go
forth and carry it back to the shop.
"Mother," said the children softly, "they are dressing the church, and
the gates are open, and people are going in and out; mayn't we play
there by the church?"

The mother looked out on the ivy-grown walls of the church, with its
flocks of twittering sparrows, and said:
"Yes, my little birds; you may play there if you'll be very good and
quiet."
The mother had only her small, close attic room for her darlings, and to
satisfy all their childish desire for variety and motion, she had only the
refuge of the streets. She was a decent, godly woman, and the bold
manners and evil words of street vagrants were terrible to her; and so,
when the church gates were open for daily morning and evening
prayers, she had often begged the sexton to let her little ones come in
and hear the singing, and wander hand in hand around the old church
walls. He was a kindly old man, and the children, stealing round like
two still, bright-eyed little mice, had gained upon his heart, and he
made them welcome there. It gave the mother a feeling of protection to
have them play near the church, as if it were a father's house.
So she put on their little hoods and tippets, and led them forth, and saw
them into the yard; and as she looked to the old gray church, with its
rustling ivy bowers and flocks of birds, her heart swelled within her.
"Yea, the sparrow hath found a house and the swallow a nest where she
may lay her young, even thine altars, O Lord of hosts, my king and my
God!" And the Shining Ones walking with her said, "Fear not; ye are of
more value than many sparrows."
[Decoration]

SCENE III.
The little ones went gayly into the yard. They had been scared by their
mother's tears; but she had smiled again, and that had made all right
with them. The sun was shining brightly, and they were on the sunny
side of the old church, and they laughed and chirped and chittered to
each other as merrily as the little birds in the ivy boughs.
The old sexton came to the side door and threw out an armful of refuse

greens, and then stopped a moment and nodded kindly at them.
"May we play with them, please, sir?" said the little Elsie, looking up
with great reverence.
"Oh, yes, to be sure; these are done with--they are no good now."
"Oh, Tottie!" cried Elsie, rapturously, "just think, he says we