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she joined her companions in play, moved no longer. I and James touched her cheek, but that also was cold; James took hold of her hand, but it was stiff and stretched out, and with sobs he said, "Will she rise again?" "Yes," answered I, "James, she will rise again; this body shall one day be very glorious to behold, and no pain will again disturb her, for the days of her mourning are ended."

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Yes,” replied Mary, who stood at the foot of the coffin, nursing the infant, "and this comforts me, that our Susan will rise again, and we shall see her clothed afresh."

James assisted me in gathering some flowers and putting them in the coffin, because as he said, "She shall look nicely when John and Jane come to see her," meaning two of her former playmates. John and Jane soon afterwards came, and we talked again about dying; and James had that morning told his school-fellow, "there was no fear but that Susan was gone to heaven, because she loved Christ and believed in him."

Then the coffin was screwed down, and preparations were made to take it to the grave. There was no hearse with black feathers on; there were no black horses and mourning coach to take Susan to the grave, but four young men of the parish carried her on their shoulders, and four young women dressed in white, with bunches of flowers in their hands, walked by the side. Her father and mother followed behind, and then Mary, and Thomas, and James, whilst Sarah and the baby remained at home in care of a neighbor.

I went to the church-yard, the bell tolled very solemnly: the clergyman who offered the prayer, seemed very serious too; James and Mary looked melancholy, and Mrs. Barker cried very much when they were putting Susan into the ground. I looked into the grave, and

thought how soon I might perhaps lie as low, and as I gazed round on the young ones who were standing about, I could not help wishing that He who had blessed their school-fellow would bless them.

I did not see any more of the family after I left the church-yard till the next Sunday, when the minister mentioned Susan's death in his sermon, and what should you suppose his text was? It was this "Damsel, I say unto thee, arise." If you look, you will find it in the latter part of the 41st verse of the 5th chapter of St. Mark.

It seemed like a continuation of what James and I had said; he described what death was, told his hearers how soon they might die, and then said that we must all rise again; that it would not be said to Susan Barker that she was to rise now, but that she would be raised at the last day. He next spoke of "the glory of her rising," how happy she would be, and asked his hearers how they thought they should rise at the day of judgment; and just before he finished, he told them some more about Susan, and exhorted them to follow her as far as she followed Christ, and then he concluded.

Think, my girls, about this little child; do not soon forget her, but remember how earnest she was for the blessings of salvation, and do you be the same. But, perhaps, you are saying that she was an extraordinary girl, and that you can never be so heavenly-minded as she was? No, she was not an extraordinary child, she was no more than what you, through the grace of Christ, may be yourself, for the Saviour said, "Ask and it shall be given, seek and ye shall find, knock and it shall be opened;" and as the hymn says,

"Though he is not here below,

But on his heavenly hill,
To him may little children go

And seek a blessing still."

I soon found that the family of the Barkers increased in my esteem, for whenever I see true religion, even in the poorest person, it reminds me that Jesus when on earth once said, "Whosoever doeth the will of my father, the same is my mother, my sister, and my brother." Taking a walk one day, I bent my steps to the cottage, and looking in, saw to my great pleasure, Mary very industriously employed; she was singing a hymn, and on her bended knees, with a pail of water by her side, she was scrubbing the floor of the room. "Well, Mary," said I, "you are busy to-day?" replied she, jumping up and making a curtesy, "we always have the room scrubbed every Saturday afternoon."

"Yes, Ma'am,"

Now as I would not on any account stop her in her useful work, I bade her good bye, and was going away; I said I was going away, but just as I put my hand on the latch of the gate to open it, I heard the sound of voices, and turning round, found under a spreading apple-tree Thomas and James with their books in their hands very studious.

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I could not resist the wish I felt to speak to them, and therefore I went to the apple-tree. "And pray what

are you both doing," said I, to the little urchins, who had made themselves dirty by playing in the mud, “what are you all doing?"

"Learning our lessons for to-morrow, Ma'am."

"Learning your lessons!" said I, "this is very late to learn your lessons; I am afraid they will not be said very well."

They looked at me very slyly, as much as to say, Why no, we are rather afraid of it.

“But why,” I asked, “do you put them off till afternoon? How much better it would be to learn a part every day! how much easier, and much pleasanter, and much safer, such a plan would be!"

"Let me see, Thomas," said I, "what you have to learn." Thomas showed me the morning hymn, "My God, who makes the sun to know," &c.; and the three first commandments; but when I came to hear him, I found that he could only say a few words of his hymn, and none at all of his commandments. "Oh fie, fie, Thomas!" exclaimed I, "this is sad."

Thomas burst into tears, saying, "I never shall be able to learn it, I know."

"Gently, gently," said I, "you have but just begun, you don't know what you can do till you try."

Thomas lay down on the grass with his book in his hand, and if ever I saw a boy look like a dunce he was one; and I trembled for the leaves of the book as he turned them over with his dirty fingers, as most dunces do. However, I left him like an obstinate, naughty boy as he was, and turned to James. I am sorry to be obliged to tell you, that though James was generally a good boy, yet he made a strange mistake then, for that afternoon he was not much better than his brother. He had three verses of Watts's Hymns to learn, and some Catechism, but instead of being sulky like Thomas, he

said with a smiling face, "I shall soon know it if I try." í hope, though I did not ask, I hope Mary knew her lessons. I left Thomas much in the same disconsolate mood in which I found him, and James endeavoring to learn with all his might. How they got on, I do not know.

Ah! I wish Sunday scholars would take a hint from this, and not put off their lessons till Saturday night; that is the reason why Teachers so often complain that they spend their strength for nought. Do be persuaded then to begin learning your lessons on the Monday morning, and so on through every day in the week, and you will be sure to know them at the end.

A short time after I paid the last visit, I received a letter from home, saying that from some unforeseen circumstance it was advisable I should return immediately. The next day I hastened to the cottage of the Barkers, to bid them farewell, for I never expected to see them again in this world, as I lived a long way off and was not likely to return. When I approached near the garden, I heard some very loud screams, and wondered what could possibly be the matter; but when I entered the house, I found that Mary was holding the babe while Mrs. Barker was doing something to his mouth; the operation was just completed as I entered, and after a few consoling expressions I heard no more of the baby's music. But there was other music in the house besides the infant's, and whose do you think it was? James you say-no, it was not James; Sarah then-no, neither was it Sarah; but it was that "troublesome, riotous Tom," as they called him, roaring so loud that he might have been heard a long way off.

Mrs. Barker said she was shocked to think I should hear such a noise in her house, and she sent Mary up to fetch the noisy culprit down. And you wish to know

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