Sunshine Factory | Page 6

flies there?" she said, as she brushed a troublesome one from her face.
The tears came in her mother's eyes, for she remembered dimly the pleasant cool rooms, darkened by blinds and shade trees, where scarcely a fly dared set it's foot, but that was long ago.
Mrs. Bertrand lived in the city, too, and she was a widow also. The difference between her and Mrs. Holmes was that Mrs. Bertrand had a great deal of money, and lived on the broad avenue, in a stone house, with marble steps. She lived there winters, but as soon as the first warm days came she packed all her handsome dresses into her trunks, and started for her house in the country, a lovely spot on the shore of the bay. There she spent the pleasant summers, rambling over her beautiful grounds, resting under the shade trees, or sailing on the bay. Now, she was not selfish and cold-hearted, if she was a rich lady; she truly loved the Lord Jesus, and loved to do his will. So it happened that while Mrs. Holmes sat in her attic, and begged the Lord to send her help, that Mrs. Bertrand sat in her beautiful home, gazing out on the blue waters, and off to the misty hills and rosy sky. Her heart swelled with thankfulness, and she asked the Lord what to do next for him. How easy it is for God to answer people's prayers, if they would only believe it!
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She sat and thought a long time of different persons, wondering what she could do for them. But the thoughts that came oftenest, and would not go away, were of poor sick little Nettie, and her sad young mother.
"Yes, I'll do it," she said; "I wonder I had not thought of it before." Then she went to her writing desk, and wrote a letter and sent it off.
Now let us go and hear it read.
"A letter for me!" said Mrs. Holmes. "How strange! Who would write to me?"
The letter was from Mrs. Bertrand, and it said: "I want you and Nettie to come right away and spend the summer with me. I am sure the fresh air will cure her." But that was not all. There was money enough sent to pay their expenses, and buy them each a traveling dress, and some other things.
I can't tell you much about how Nettie screamed for joy, and how her mother cried, then both laughed, and both cried; but I know that not long after two very happy beings dressed in gray, took the morning boat and were brought safely to Mrs. Bertrand's door. Then how they rode and sailed, and took long rambles, and gathered flowers, and thought the time spent in sleep was wasted.
The favorite seat was in the balcony, where Nettie could watch the sea-gulls come and go, and where you may see them all this minute, Nettie, and her mother, and Mrs. Betrand, with her basket of flowers. Nettie's cheeks are getting round and rosy, and it is hard to say who is happiest of them all; but Mrs. Bertrand must be, because you know it says: "It is more blessed to give than to receive."
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WARREN'S VERSE.
He is a little bit of a fellow. He can't read any more than a mouse can; but he is very fond of standing in this way, beside his mother, while she points to the words and pronounces them; then it is easy to read them.
Last Tuesday morning he was reading this verse: "A fool despiseth his father's instruction: but he that regardeth reproof is prudent." There were two listeners to this lesson. Warren's father in the study was having a great hunt after some papers, but in his haste he couldn't help stopping to listen to the sweet little voice repeating the long words.
"Mamma," he called at last, "seems to me that is a long verse, and one almost beyond the little man's understanding isn't it?"
Mamma laughed. "I think so," she said. "But the trouble is Warren doesn't; his sister Laura has been learning this verse, and he wants to."
In the little reading-room opening from the study, Uncle Warren, a gay young chap who was boarding at his sister's, listened and laughed over the words that sounded so queerly, coming from the baby lips. Over and over they were repeated: "A fool despiseth his father's instruction: but he that regardeth reproof is prudent." As he listened Uncle Warren's handsome face grew sober, he was writing letters, and many papers were strewn before him. He took up one of them and read it over:
"Dear old fellow:--You have buried yourself in your sister's arms long enough. Don't be tied to her apron-string; come down to-night, we are going to have a real jolly time in Joe's room.