THE LITTLE MAID-OF-ALL-WORK.

BY T. S. ARTHUR.

Supper was not ready when Abraham Munday lifted the latch of his humble dwelling, at the close of a long, weary summer day. He was not greatly disappointed, for it often so happened. The table was on the floor, partly set, and the kettle over the fire.

"There it is again!" exclaimed Mrs. Munday, fretfully: "home from work, and no supper ready. The baby has been so cross, hardly out of my arms the whole afternoon. I'm glad you've come, though. Here, take him, while I fly around and get things on the table."

Mr. Munday held out his arms for the little one, who sprang into them with a baby shout.

Mrs. Munday did fly around in good earnest. A few pieces of light wood thrown on the fire, soon made the kettle sing, and steam, and bubble. In a wonderfully short space of time all was ready; and the little family, consisting of husband, wife, and three children, were gathered around the table. To mother's arms the baby was transferred; and she had no very easy task in pouring out her husband's tea, preparing cups of milk and water for the two elder of the little ones, and restraining the baby, who was grappling the sugar-bowl, then the milk-pitcher, and next the teapot.

"There!" suddenly exclaimed Mrs. Munday. And two quick slaps on baby's head were heard. Baby, of course, answered promptly with a wild scream. But what

had baby done! The whole surface is covered with milk. His busy, fluttering hands, had overturned the pitcher.

Poor Mrs. Munday lost her temper completely. "It's of no use attempting eating with this child," said she, pushing her chair back from the table. "I never have any good of my meals."

Mr. Munday's appetite failed him at once. He continued to eat, however, but more hurriedly. Soon he pushed back his chair also, and, rising up, said cheerfully,

"There, I'm done, Lotty. Give me the Daby while you eat your supper."

And he took the sobbing child from the arms of its mother. Tossing it up, and speaking to it in a lively, affectionate tone

of voice, he soon restored pleasure to the heart, and smiles to the countenance, of the little one.

Mrs. Munday felt rebuked for her impa tience. She often suffered from these silent rebukes. And yet the trials of temper she endured were very great. No relish for food was left. The wants of the two children were attended to, and then, while Mr. Munday held the baby, the busied herself in clearing off the table, washing up the tea things, and putting the room in order.

An hour later, baby was asleep, and the other children with it in the land of dreams. Mrs. Munday was busy sewing a little frock, and Mr. Munday sat with his face turned from the light, in a brown study.

"Lotty," said the latter, waking up from his reverie, and speaking with considerable emphasis, "It's no use for you to keep going on in this way any longer. You are wearing yourself out. And what's more, there is no comfort at home for anybody. You must get a woman to help you about the house."

"We can't afford it, Abraham," was Mrs. Munday's calm but decided answer. "We must afford it, Lotty. You are killing yourself."

"A woman will cost seven shillings a week, and her board at least as much more. We can't spare that sum, and you only get fifty shillings a week."

Mr.

The argument was unanswered. Munday sighed, and was silent. Again his face was turned from the light, and again the hand of his wife plied quickly the glittering needle.

"I'll tell you what we might do," said Mrs. Munday, after a lapse of nearly ten minutes.

"Well?" Her husband turned toward her, and assumed a listening attitude.

"We might take a small girl to help in the family. It would only cost us her victuals and clothes."

Mr. Munday mused for some time before answering. He didn't just like the proposition.

Barrow, who died last month?

She left a little girl, about eleven years old, with no one to see after her but an old aunt, who, I've heard, isn't very kind to the child. No doubt she would be glad to get her into a good place. It would be very easy for her here. She could hold the baby, or rock it in the cradle, while I was at work about the house, and do a great many little things for me that would lighten my task wonderfully. It is the very thing, husband," added Mrs. Munday, with animation. "And if you agree, I will run over and see Mrs. Gooch, her aunt, in the morning, before you go to work."

"How old did you say she was?" enquired Mr. Munday.

"She was eleven in the spring, I believe." "Our Aggy is between nine and ten." Something like a sigh followed the words; for the thought of having the little Aggy turned out motherless, among strangers, to do the drudgery and task-work, forced Itself upon his mind.

"True. But a year or so makes a great difference. Besides, Anna Barrow is an uncommonly smart girl of her age.'

Mr. Munday sighed again.

"Well," he said, after being silent for a few minutes, "you can do as you think best. But it does seem hard to make a servant of a mere child like that."

"You call the position in which she will be by too hard a name," said Mrs. Munday. "I can make her very useful without overtasking her. And, then, you know, as she has got to earn her own living, she cannot acquire habits of industry too soon."

Mrs. Munday was now quite in earnest about the matter, so much so that her husband made no other objections. On the next morning she called to see Mrs. Gooch, the aunt of Anna Barrow.

The offer to take the little girl was accepted at once.

When Mr. Munday came home at dinnertime, he found the meal ready, and waiting his appearance. Mrs. Munday looked cheerful and animated. In a corner of the room sat a slender little girl, not much larger than Aggy, with the sleeping baby in her arms. She lifted her eyes timidly to the face of Mr. Munday, who gave her a kind look.

"Poor motherless child!" such was his thought.

"I can't tell you how much assistance she is to me," whispered Mrs. Munday to

her husband, leaning over to him as they sat at the table. "And the baby seems so fond of her."

Mr. Munday said nothing, but before his mind was distinctly pictured his own little girl, a servant in the house of a stranger.

On his return from work in the evening, everything wore a like improved appearance. Supper was ready, and Mrs. Munday had nothing of the worried look so apparent on the occasion of her first introduction to the reader. Everything wore an improved appearance, did we say? No, not everything. There was a change in the little orphan girl, and Mr. Munday saw at a glance, that the change so pleasant to contemplate, had been made at her expense. The tidy look noticed at dinner-time was gone. Her clothes were soiled and tumbled; her hair had lost its even, glossy appearance, and her manner showed extreme weariness of body and mind. She was holding the baby. None saw the tears that crept over her cheeks, as the family gathered around the tea-table, and, forgetful of her, enjoyed the evening meal.

Supper over, Mrs. Munday took the baby and undressed it, while Anna sat down to eat her portion of the food. Four times, ere this was accomplished, did Mrs. Munday send her up to her chamber for something wanted either for herself or the child.

"You must learn to eat quick, Anna," said Mrs. Munday, ere the little girl, in consequence of these interruptions, was half through her supper. Anna looked frightened and confused, pushed back her chair, and stood gazing enquiringly into the face of her mistress.

"Are you done?" the latter coldly asked. "Yes, ma'am," was timidly answered. "Very well. Now I want you to clear off the table. Gather up all the things, and take them out into the kitchen. Then shake the table-cloth, set the table back, and sweep up the room."

Mr. Munday looked at his wife, but said nothing.

"Shall I help Anna, mother ?" enquired Aggy.

and every now and then giving her a word * of instruction. She felt very comfortable,

as she finally got back in her chair, with her little one asleep in her arms. By this time Anna was in the kitchen, where, according to instruction, she was washing up the tea things. While thus engaged to the best of her small abilities, a cup slipped from her hand, and was broken on the floor. The sound startled Mrs. Munday from her agreeable state of mind and body.

"What's that ?" she cried.

"A cup, ma'am," was the trembling answer.

"You're a careless little girl," said Mrs. Munday, rather severely. The baby was now taken up stairs and laid in bed. After this, Mrs. Munday went to the kitchen, to see how her little maid-of-all-work was getting on with the supper dishes. Not altogether to her satisfaction it must be owned.

"You will have to do all over again," she said,-not kindly and encouragingly, but with something captious and authoritative in her manner. "Throw out the water from the dish-pan, and get some more."

Anna obeyed, and Mrs. Munday seated herself by the kitchen-table to observe her movements, and correct them when wrong.

"Not that way. Here, let me show you the way. Stop! I said it must be done in this way. Here-that is right. Don't set the dishes down so hard; you'll break them; they are not made of iron."

These, and words of like tenor, were addressed to the child, who, anxious to do right, yet so confused as often to misapprehend what was said to her, managed at length to complete her task.

"Now, sweep up the kitchen, and put things to rights. When you've done, come to me," said Mrs. Munday, who now retired to the little sitting-room, where her husband was glancing over the paper, and Aggy engaged in studying her lesson.

On entering, she remarked, "It's more trouble to teach a girl like this, than to do it yourself."

Mr. Munday said nothing; but he had his own thoughts.

"Mother, I'm sleepy; I want to go to bed," said Fanny, younger by two or three years than Aggy.

"Wait until Anna is done in the kitchen, and she will go up and stay with you. Anna," Mrs. Munday called to her, "make haste; I want you to put Fanny to bed."

In a few minutes Anna appeared, and, as directed, went up stairs with Fanny.

"She looks tired. Hadn't you better tell her to go to bed also?" suggested Mr. Munday.

"To bed!" ejaculated Mrs. Munday, in a voice of surprise; "I've got something for her to do besides going to bed."

Mr. Munday resumed the reading of his paper, and said no more. Fanny was soon asleep.

"Can't Anna go with me now? I'm afraid to go alone," said Aggy, as the girl came down from the chamber.

"Yes, I suppose so. But you must go to sleep quickly. I've got something for Anna to do."

Mr. Munday sighed and moved himself uneasily in his chair. In half an hour Anna came down; Aggy was just asleep. As she made her appearance the baby awoke and cried.

"Run up and hush the baby to sleep before he gets wide awake," said Mrs. Munday.

The weary child went as directed. In a little while the low murmur of her voice was heard as she attempted to quiet the baby by singing a nursery ditty. How often had her mother's voice soothed her to sleep with the self-same melody. The babe stopped crying, and soon all was silent in the chamber. Nearly half an hour passed, during which Mrs. Munday was occupied in sewing.

"I do believe that girl has fallen asleep," said she, at length, letting her work drop in her lap, and assuming a listening attitude.. "Anna," she called. But there was no answer.

Mrs. Munday started up, and ascended to her chamber. Mr. Munday was by her side as she entered the room. Sure enough Anna had fallen asleep, leaning over the bed where the infant lay.

"Poor motherless child!" said Mr. Munday in a voice of tender compassion, that reached the heart of his wife, and awakened there some womanly emotions.

"Poor thing! I suppose she is tired out," said the latter. "She'd better go to bed."

So she awakened her, and told her to go up into the garret, where a bed had been made for her on the floor. Thither the child proceeded, and there wept herself again to sleep. In her dream that night she was in her own pleasant home; and she was still dreaming of her mother and

her home, when she was awakened by the sharp voice of Mrs. Munday, who told her to get up quickly and come down, as it was broad daylight.

"You must kindle the fire, and get the kettle on in a jiffy."

Such was the order she received on passing the door of Mrs. Munday.

We will not describe, particularly, the trials of this day for our poor little maid-ofall-work. Mrs. Munday was a hard mistress. She had taken Anna as help, though not with the purpose of overworking or oppressing her. But now that she had some one to lighten her burdens and take steps for her, the temptation to consult her own ease was very great. Less wearied than in days past, because relieved of scores of little matters about the house, the aggregate of which had worn her down, she was lifted somewhat above an appreciating sympathy for the child, who, in thus relieving her, was herself over-tasked. Instead of merely holding the baby for Mrs. Munday, when it was awake, and would not be in its cradle, and doing for her "odd turns," as first contemplated, so as to enable her the better to get through the work of the family, the former at once began to play lady, and to require of Anna, not only the performance of a great deal of household labour, but to wait on her in many instances where the service was almost superfluous.

When Mr. Munday came home to supper, he found his wife with a book in her hand. The table was set, the fire burning cheerfully, and the hearth swept up. The baby was asleep in its cradle; and as Mrs. Munday read, she now and then touched with her foot the rocker. This he observed through the window, without being seen. He then glanced into the kitchen. tea-kettle had been taken from the fire,the tea-pot was on the hearth, flanked on one side by a plate of toast, and on the other by a dish containing some meat left from dinner, which had been warmed over. These would have quickened his keen appetite but for another vision.

The

On her knees, in the middle of the room, was Anna, slowly, and evidently in a state of exhaustion, scrubbing the floor. Her face, which happened to be turned towards him, looked wan and pale, and he saw at a glance her red eyes, and the tears upon her cheeks. While he yet gazed upon her, she paused in her work, straightened her little form with a wearied effort, and clasping

both hands across her forehead, lifted her wet eyes upward. There was no motion of her wan lips, but Mr. Munday knew that her heart, in its young sorrow, was raised to heaven. At this moment the kitchen door opened, and Mr. Munday saw his wife enter.

"Eye service!" said she, severely, as she saw the position of Anna. "I don't like this. Not half over the floor yet! Why, what have you been doing ?"

The startled child bent quickly to her weary task, and scrubbed with a new energy, imparted by fear. Mr. Munday turned, heart-sick from the window, and entered their little sitting-room as his wife came in from the kitchen. She met him with a pleasant smile, but he was grave and silent.

"Don't you feel well?" she enquired with a look of concern.

"Not very well," he answered, evasively. "Have you felt ill all day ?" "Yes; but I am heart-sick now." "Heart-sick! What has happened, Abraham ?"

Mrs. Munday looked slightly alarmed. "One whom I thought full of human kindness, has been oppressive, and even cruel."

"Abraham! what do you mean?"

"Perhaps my eyes deceived me!" he answered; "perhaps it was a dream, but I saw a sight just now that makes the tears flow."

And as Mr. Munday spoke, he took his wife by the arm and led her out through the back door.

"Look," said he, "there is a poor motherless child, scarcely a year older than our Aggy."

Anna had dropped her brush again, and her pale face and tearful eyes were once more uplifted. Was it only a delusion of fancy, or did Mrs. Munday really see the form of Mrs. Barrow stooping over her suffering child, as striving to clasp her in her shadowy arms?

For a few moments the whole mind of Mrs. Munday was in a whirl of excitement. Then stepping from the side of her husband, she glided through the open door, and was in the kitchen ere Anna had time to change her position. Frightened at being found idle again, the poor child caught eagerly at the brush which lay upon the floor. In doing so she missed her grasp, and weak and trembling from exhaustion, fell forward, where she lay

motionless. When Mrs. Munday endeavoured to raise her up, she found her insensible.

"Poor,-poor child!" said Mr. Munday tenderly, his voice quivering with emotion as he lifted her in his arms. He bore her up to the children's chamber, and laid her on their bed.

"Not here," said Mrs. Munday; "up in her own room."

"She is one of God's children, and as precious in his sight as ours,' " almost sobbed the husband, yet with a rebuking sternness in his voice; "she shall lie here!" "Mrs. Munday was not naturally a cruel woman, but she loved her own selfishly; and the degree in which this is done, is the measure of disregard toward others. She forgot, in her desire for service, that her little servant was but a poor motherless child, thrust out from the parent nest, with all the tender longings of a child for love, and all its weakness and want of experience. She failed to remember that in the sight of God all children are equally precious.

But the scales fell from her eyes. She was rebuked, humbled, and repentant.

"Anna must go back to her aunt," said Mr. Munday, after the child had recovered from the brief fainting fit, and calmness was once more restored to the excited household.

"She must remain," was the subdued but firm answer. "I have dealt cruelly with her. Let me have an opportunity to repair the wrong she has suffered. I will try to think of her as my own child. If I fail in that, the consciousness of her mother's presence will save me from my first errror."

And Anna did remain, to be Mrs. Munday's little maid-of-all-work. But her tasks, though varied, were light. She was never again overburdened; but treated with a judicious kindness that won her affections, and made her ever willing to render service to the utmost of her ability.

WHAT HAVE YOU DONE? About fifteen years ago, a Baptist minister, now labouring successfully in the United States, was the zealous and laborious secretary of one of our public societies in England. Considering the whole world as his parish, wherever he went in his almost incessant travels, he found something to do for his Great Master, and was

not unfrequently in the habit of making direct enquiries of christians as to the extent of their personal exertions for the advancement of the Divine glory. He one day called on an old lady, who had been a member of a church of Christ for fifty years, and asked her if she could recollect how many persons she had brought inte the christian church. She looked at him with astonishment, as if she thought he had placed her in the situation of a minister of the gospel, and at length said that she did not recollect that she had introduced any one individual into the church. Could she, reader, think you, have been a very active, or a very happy christian? Yet how many, alas, are just like her!

Now let us look at a contrast. He next called on a young lady, who had been a member of the church but a very few years, and proposed to her the same question. With great diffidence and modesty she re'plied that she hoped she had been useful in bringing many to the knowledge of the truth. She said that she had at present in her class four children, two boys and two girls, One Sabbath morning she missed them from school, and on Monday she went in pursuit of the fugitives. On arriving at their home, she found that their mother had been ill, and had died during the past week, which had prevented the children from attending the school on the Sabbathday. She also found their father sitting by the fire-side, and when he found that she was the teacher of his children, he rose and thanked her for having imparted to them the lessons they had brought home and taught to their dying mother, and which had been the means of sustaining her mind in her departing moments. The "How young lady then said to the father, is it that I never see you at a place of worship?" To which he replied, that he was very deaf, and could not hear the preacher. The fact was,-the man's heart was wrong, so that he did not love the truth, and was therefore unwilling to hear it.

The young lady promised him that if he would come the following Sabbath, she would ask the minister to speak loud, and would place him in a situation where he would be sure to hear. He promised to be there, but failed in keeping his word. On the following morning our young teacher went in pursuit of her aged scholar. The same excuse would not do. She told him she had at home a bearing-trumpet which she would lend him, if he would