The next day Lisbeth came, as she had promised, to St. Mary's garden. It was a beautiful place, the high stone walls were green with ivy, the sunbeams played in its smooth, graveled walks that led by close-clipped hedges to the grotto of Lourdes, always gleaming with novena lights in honor of the Immaculate Mother.

There was a Calvary in the center, a grassy mound upholding a marble cross, while the fountain near by was guarded by a white-winged angel leading a little child.

All these were knew and bewildering sights to Lisbeth, as Sister Angela led her into this lovely spot and she looked from grotto to cross and angel with wide-open eyes of wonder.

She had put on her best clothes a brown gingham dress very much too small for her, a gray worsted sweater very much too large,  a red worsted cap with a swinging tassel. But there were no little girls to stare and titter at her looks to-day they had all gone home.

Sister Angela led her to a bench by the fountain at the white-winged angel's feet. And there Lisbeth's lessons began, not hard lessons at all, for they were all in a book full of pictures - pictures that the lonely little child could understand - for they were of birds and bees and butterfly's, of flowers and trees, of all the beautiful living, growing things that Lisbeth knew. And after she had look at them awhile Sister Angela asked her, "Who made all these things, Lisbeth?"

"Why, why they grew," answered Lisbeth with a little laugh.

"Who makes them grow and live and sing and bleat and chirp? Who made the hills and the woods, and big old Top Notch that rises so high and rough above your house? Who made the bright sun that comes out every morning - and the moon and stars that shine at night? Who made all these wonderful, beautiful things, Lisbeth?"

"Oh, I-I don't know," faltered Lisbeth. "I thought they just grew, but the sun can't grow, or stars or mountains." She lifted soft, bewildered eyes to the distant crest of Old Top Notch outlined against the sunlit sky. "Who could have made them all?"

"I will tell you," said Sister Angela as she put her arm around Lisbeth and drew her close to her side. And then, in sweet, simple words that the little girl could understand, Sister Angela tole her of the good God, who has made all things in Heaven and on earth, the sun to shine by day, the moon and stars by night, and all this wonderful world of life and beauty and growth and bloom by His word and will. "He sees, knows, rules all things, Lisbeth even the fall of all little bird from its nest in the tree - but it is the little children like you, Lisbeth, He loves best of all."

And Sister Angela went on to tell her that this great God who made and rules all things is the loving Father of all His children on earth — watching over them, caring for them, guarding them by night and day.

It was only what happier little ones learn at their mother's knee that Lisbeth heard for the first time to-day at the white-winged angel's feet — but she listened as happier children do not often listen, her eyes wide with interest, her thin brown cheeks glowing, her lips apart.

A Father! Lisbeth never had known a Father, and the name sent a strange tremor through her lonely little heart. A Father! What a strange, wonderful thing to have a Father, who could do all things, who was so great and loving and good, who had made the sun, moon, stars, and this green, beautiful earth with all that lived and moved and grew upon it — most wonderful of all who had made little Lisbeth herself to be His child and to love and serve and be happy with Him forever.

Before Lisbeth left the garden that afternoon, she had learned the first words of her first prayer.

"Our Father who art in Heaven" — just those six words and no more but oh, how much they meant to Lisbeth! Happier little girls, who had said them all their lives, could never know.

Then Sister Angela opened a box she had with her and showed Lisbeth how to play with the pretty painted blocks it held — how A stood for Apple, and B for Bunny, and C for Cat, and D for Dog.

It was such a delightful game that Lisbeth was up to K for Kitten before it was time to go. For the great convent bell was sending its deep call through the garden now, and Sister Angela rose, showing a neat paper bundle that had been beside her on the bench.

"It is the little blue dress that I promised you. Put it on tomorrow, when you come to school. My little pupil must look nice and neat as the other little girls at St. Mary's."
"Oh, I couldn't said Lisbeth, breathless with delight.

"Yes, yes, you can," said Sister Angela gayly. "Put on the blue dress tomorrow and see."

And then the big bell rang again, and Sister Angela had to go, while Lisbeth went back over the rough road to the Brambles feeling as if she had not quite wakened from a beautiful dream. Gran was not home —only Dirck, the watchdog, was keeping house.
 
Lisbeth went into the big closet that had once been the pantry of Thornwood and was now her room. Its only furniture was a narrow cot, a broken chair. She took the string off her bundle and spread out its contents with eager, trembling hands. A blue gingham dress, all trimmed with braid and buttons, a neat little under skirt, half a dozen pairs of stockings, a pair of strong new shiny shoes, with tips and heels! She tried them on—they fitted without a squeeze or pinch. For one delighted moment she stood straight up on the pair of dainty feet she could scarcely believe were her own.

"Oh, Dirck, look!" she said to the big dog who had followed her to the door. "Ain't they beautiful, Dirck? And they don't hurt like the shoes Uncle Lem brought me. I could run and jump and dance in them right now. But I won't — I might get them muddied and scratched, and I must go to school looking nice—nice like the other little girls—and maybe they will play with me, now that I have this lovely blue dress and shining shoes. I'll take them off and put them away until tomorrow and then you and I will get supper—a real nice supper for Gran,"

It was not often they had real suppers at Thornwood. Lisbeth often ate her crust of bread or johnny-cake swinging on the broken gate. But she must be nice like the other little girls now, as Sister Angela had said.

When Gran came home, grim and cross in the fading sunset, she blinked with angry surprise for Lisbeth had "set" the kitchen table as best she could; a clean towel covered its blackened top, the milk, usually served in the tin can, had been poured into a cracked pitcher. Lisbeth had washed the few cups and plates, filled the broken sugar bowl, sliced the stale loaf as she had seen it sliced at their neighbor's, Mrs. Burns.

"What's all this?" asked Gran as she dropped heavily into her chair. "You ain't been having company again ?"

"Oh no, Gran, it's just for you," answered Lisbeth. "The tea is hot, and I found some cheese in the cupboard, and a jar of jam."

Cheese and jam! I like your impudence," growled the old woman. But for all her rough speech, Gran's face softened a little as Lisbeth poured out her tea. "Ye went to school today as the lady bid ye?" she asked. "What sort of a place is it?"

"Oh, a beautiful place, Gran!" Lisbeth answered. "And Sister Angela (she told me to call her Sister) was so nice and kind too, and she gave me a pretty dress and shoes, her own little sister's dress, Gran. Oh, I like going to school so much!"

"Well, if it is all you say and you're not put upon, I don't see why you can't keep it up. Now clear up all this clutter, for I 'm outdone with the trouble and worriment of the day. I must get to my bed and rest."

And Lisbeth cleaned up the "clutter" with a willing hand, and then, while old Gran slept heavily after her troubled day, and Dirck dozed in the darkened kitchen, Sister Angela's little pupil sat out on the broken doorstep watching the stars peeping out one by one in the violet skies, and thinking of all Sister Angela had told her as they sat together on the bench beside the fountain.

The great golden sun that had just gone down, the moon rising over the rocky heights of old Top Notch, the stars glimmering in the twilight sky, the woods, the hills, the mountains had new meaning for her tonight. They were all made by God, and this good God was her Father; she was His little child.

It was a happy Lisbeth that met Sister Angela next day. The pretty blue frock fitted her to a charm, the gray sweater had been left at home, for the days were growing warmer, a stiffly starched sun-bonnet replaced the knit cap.

"What a very nice looking little girl," said Sister Angela brightly.

"Gran told me to give you this," said Lisbeth, producing a folded paper. "She can't read it, she says, because it's Spanish or French, but she knows it is all right."

"Oh, it is, indeed," said Sister Angela gladly as she glanced over the parchment like sheet. "It is your baptismal certificate from the old mission church of San Filippo, California. Oh, Lisbeth, little Lisbeth, how wonderful! You are God's own dear child already. Now all is right, my dear little girl; your sweet little soul has been freed from all stain of sin."

And as Lisbeth looked up at her, wondering, Sister Angela drew her to her side and explained what baptism meant. She showed her pictures of the first man and woman in their beautiful garden, where there was no sorrow, no sickness, no pain. She showed her the one Tree they were forbidden to touch and how they had disobeyed.

Sister Angela told Lisbeth how the punishment for this disobedience had fallen on them and all their children, how they had been driven out of the beautiful garden with its fruits and flowers, and Life had become dark and sad and sorrowful because they had offended their good God and Father.

"I would never have done that," said Lisbeth positively — "never. I would have stayed in the garden and been good."

"Ah, that is what we all think, little Lisbeth," said Sister Angela softly, "but we don't know until we are tried. It is often hard even for little girls to be good and loving, patient and kind. Even to little children there comes the tempter's whisper: do this wrong thing, tell this story that is not true, take what is forbidden, no one will ever see or know, But the good God who is your Father always sees and knows what you are doing, what you are saying, even what you are thinking, little Lisbeth, and so we must try to do and say and think nothing that would displease Him because that is Sin — and sin is the worst thing in all the world, worse than pain or sickness or sorrow, worse than Death itself."

So the sweet hour in the garden went by for Lisbeth, and she went home to the dark old house in the Brambles, to take off her pretty blue dress and shining shoes and be Gran's shabby, ragged, barefooted little girl again.

And oh, how cross Gran was this afternoon! How she scolded and grumbled and nagged! She was to wash for the boys in the morning, and Lisbeth had to bring wood and draw water until her poor little brown arms ached. There was no time to think tonight; she was glad to creep into her pantry room in the early darkness and tumble wearily into her narrow little bed. But through the broken window came the pate light of the moon, shining over the crest of old Top Notch, the glimmer of a star through the cedar bough, the twitter of the birds in their new-made nests. Tired little Lisbeth remembered again, and even as her sleepy eyes closed, whispered her prayer
— "Our Father who art in Heaven."

To be continued . . . . . . on Thursday

THE visitors coming up through the thorn bushes had seen all. For the moment Sister Angela, whose short life-path had led only through sweet ways of God's peace and love, quite lost her nerve.

"Oh! My poor, poor little lamb," she murmured, all a-tremble. "To be treated like that, Barbara. Barbara, we must get her at once. We must take her this very day from that cruel, dreadful old woman."

But Sister Barbara, who was wiser in the ways of a wicked world, shook her old head. "That's easier said than done, my dear, if the child is her own flesh and blood. And there's both fight and fury in the old sinner's eye.

"But I've seen her likes before," continued Sister Barbara calmly. "I'm not as knowledgeable in books as you are, Angela, but I've learned a deal more of the world, the flesh, and the devil.

"Let me go first and do the talking" — and Sister Barbara stepped forward to the threatening figure at the kitchen door.

"Good day," she said pleasantly. "You are Mrs. Lome, I believe."

"I am," answered Gran, a trifle softened by such respectful address. "What's your business with me?"

"Oh, no business at all, ma'am," answered Sister Barbara with her cheerful smile. "We are two Sisters from St. Mary's Convent; maybe you know the place?"

"No, I don't," answered Gran grimly, "and I don't want to know it, I ain't the praying kind."

"You're not?" said Sister Barbara in a friendly tone. "I'm sorry to hear that, for the time comes sooner or later when we all need to pray. Maybe you've never known the heart-break and the heart-scald that bring the rest of us to our knees, and if you haven't you're the lucky woman for your years, I must say, Mrs. Lorne." Gran glared silently at the speaker. This was really a most unusual visitor, not at all like the "Board Ladies" who came last winter dressed in fine feathers and furs and found the place so horrible. The back yard was a litter of cans and ashes and general household debris now; the water from the luckless Lisbeth's pail was slopping steps and porch; Gran herself, after her house cleaning, was a fierce, grizzled old picture in rags and tatters. But these guests in their simple black gowns and spotless bonnets did not seem to see anything amiss.

"If you don't mind I'll sit here for a minute and get my breath," said Sister Barbara, dropping down on the broken bench beside the kitchen door. "I am not so young as I once was myself, and am a bit short winded.

"Sit down, Angela dear," to the tall, fairfaced Sister beside her. "Mrs. Lorne won't begrudge us a little rest, I am sure, and a breath of this fine, sweet air. There's nothing like the Thornwood air, as I've always heard. It blows straight down from the mountains without a break. As I was telling my young Sister when we came up the hill, Mrs. Lorne, I knew this grand old place long ago. My aunt was dairymaid here when I was a bit of a girl. Many are the pleasant hours I've spent here, helping her with her butter and cream.

"I suppose the spring house was down when you took the place. And the well," continued Sister Barbara, glancing toward the broken boards that marked the water supply of Thornwood.

"There never was water like that well. Cold as ice on the hottest summer day, with a fine sparkle in it. Before we go, Mrs. Lorne, I'll ask you for a cup of that water, just to see if it has the taste of the long ago."

Still Gran glared speechlessly; but her hands had dropped from their defiant position on her hips, the angry fire was dying out of her face and eyes; she was no longer like the old mountain wild cat guarding her den, she was Mrs. Lorne now, and Mrs. Lorne could not possibly throw hot water as she had intended, on visitors who addressed her so respectfully, who sat on her kitchen doorstep chatting in such a pleasant, neighborly way, who had made butter and cheese here at Thornwood long ago. Gran was being soothed, softened, she did not know how. Deep down in her tough, leathery old heart something womanly was stirring into life. But her keen old eyes glittered suspiciously still.

"It's not for a cup of cold water ye came here, I know. What is it ye want?" she asked.

"Ah, that's the way to talk," said Sister Barbara with an approving laugh, "straight and plain and short. It reminds me of my own old mother, God rest her soul. She was wonderfully silent for an Irishwoman, maybe because my father, like myself, had tongue enough for two.

"But what she said was solid sense, every word. So I'll tell you what we came for, Mrs. Lorne, in this friendly way — it's to see that little girl of yours.

"Sister Angela here was passing your place yesterday with a few of our own children, looking for spring flowers. And when she saw the beauty of your thorn bushes, they couldn't get by the gate. So they asked that dear little  girl of yours if they could have a few of the lovely white blooms for the altar in our chapel. She told them you were not at home, but she could give them to us, she knew. Never a cent of pay would she take for them, though she scratched hands and face getting the flowers, and, though Sister Angela has been teaching nice children this many a year, she was so struck with your little girls sweet ways and looks that she has been thinking about her ever since.

"And if you could see our altar today, Mrs. Lorne, with your thorn flowers! There's nothing like it in town, and the breath of them filling the whole house with sweetness. Why, the florist would have asked us ten dollars for one-half as grand a show."

"So we came out in this friendly way to see the little girl, and since she wouldn't take any money, which shows a fine, genteel spirit, I must say, we have brought her out this little basket of cakes and some apples and candy. I made the cakes myself, and know they are fresh and good." Sister Barbara opened the basket and showed her offering, looking, under its spotless napkin, dainty enough for a little queen.

"And knowing that, like myself, you were on in years, and maybe had the good old fashioned ways, I made bold to put in this little jar for you, Mrs. Lorne. It's the best of Scotch snuff, ma'am. My brother sends me a pound or two every Christmas. He gets it from the old country. There's nothing like it can be bought about here," And with a friendly smile beaming on her good old face, Sister Barbara handed Gran her gift. It was the last softening touch. Snuff! Fine — strong — bought — Scotch snuff! If Gran had one weakness in her sturdy old frame, it was for — snuff. She took the jar from her visitor doubtfully, looked at it, opened it, sniffed it, and Sister Barbara's victory was won.

"Aye, it's fine," said Gran, taking another whiff. "An' ye're the first civil Christian woman I've talked to this two years. I'm sorry ye find things in such a clutter today, but we're house cleaning, and I am all done out." She sank down on the bench beside her visitors, all her fierce strength of passion gone, looking what she was, a poor old woman, withered and weak.

"Lisbeth!" she called shortly, "Lisbeth! She is that drenched and draggled, after the day's work, that she is not fit to be seen any more than myself," added Gran with a sudden consciousness of her own rags and tatters.

"Oh, we don't mind that," said Sister Barbara heartily. "We've all done house cleaning and know what it means. Call the little girl, for we would like to talk to her and give her the cakes before we go, for Angela here has lost her heart to her entirely."

"I have indeed," said Sister Angela, and the sweet earnestness of the voice, the clear truth in the soft young eyes told keen old Gran the words were not palaver.

"Lisbeth," she called again, "d'ye hear me, Lisbeth; the ladies here are asking for ye—come out to them." And Lisbeth came, a poor little shamefaced, bewildered, breathless Lisbeth, with the mark of Gran's heavy blow still on her grimy, tear-stained cheek, a Lisbeth who could scarcely believe this was not all a wonderful dream. For the sweet-faced ladies arm was around her, drawing her all drenched and draggled as she was, to her side, and the low, tender voice was calling her "My dear little girl," and the other lady, who was stout and rosy, was offering her cakes and red apples, while, most astonishing of all, Gran was sitting with these strange visitors, talking to them as Lisbeth had never heard her talk to visitors before — real quiet — and polite.

"No, Lisbeth isn't a Lorne, ma'am; she is my daughter's child, my only girl, that ran off and married when she was only seventeen, and was widdowed within the year. My own Lisbeth, or Lise, as the boys called her, didn't stay long after him. She was a soft bit of a thing and it broke her heart. So I've had the child ever since, though it's been hard pickings for me many a time. She's my own flesh and blood and I won't
give her up."

It was the fierce cry of the wild things of the wood over nest and den, but Sister Angela only tightened her hold of Lisbeth and drew her close to her heart.

"And such a dear little girl will repay all your care, I am sure," she said gently; "won't you, Lisbeth? When you grow up into a nice good woman, you will take care of Gran."

"I — I don't know," murmured Lisbeth shyly. Taking? care of Gran was a matter she had never considered.

"It's little care I'm looking for from anyone," said Gran with sudden bitterness. "I've two louts of boys now and see where I am."

"Oh, but Lisbeth is a girl," said Sister Angela smiling — "and girls are different; they can cook and mend and sew — can you sew, Lisbeth?"

"No, she can't," said Gran grimly, "she can't do nothing at all."

"Not read or spell?" said Sister Angela. Lisbeth shook her head again. "Oh, Lisbeth, lazy little Lisbeth! Why — all my little girls you saw yesterday can read books, great big books, full of beautiful stories. It's time you were reading too."

"There ain't — ain't nobody to learn me," said Lisbeth, bursting into open confusion, "and I ain't got no shoes or clothes to go to school. And—and — the little girls that have ropes and hoops and balls won't play with me — I'd rather stay in the Brambles — there's birds and squirrels and frogs — here."

"Ah, God bless the darlint, but she's got the wonderful sense," said Sister Barbara, feeling it was time to put in a word of cheer.
 
"It's the grand scholar she'd make if she had the chance, Mrs. Lorne — and she ought to have it. If you'd let her come to us — it won't cost you a cent. We've a fine school at St. Mary's, some of the nicest little girls in town, and Sister Angela and I will see that she is not put upon — by any of them."

"We will, indeed," said Sister Angela eagerly. "I'll teach her myself, I'll keep her with me—I'll take care that no one slights her — hurts her. Wouldn't you like to come, Lisbeth?"
"With you? — to you?" said Lisbeth breathlessly. " Oh yes, yes — can I, Gran —can I, can I?"

"Just for a little while each day," continued Sister Angela, turning to Gran, her sweet face all aglow. "I'll take her in the garden where she will feel more at home, all by herself, until she learns to study — to play with the other little girls." But Lisbeth's head that had been lifted eagerly to the speaker's face suddenly drooped.

"They won't play with me," she said, "they never will; they just stand still when I come near and won't play at all."

"It's their proud airs," said Gran, firing up again. "I'll not have her go where she will be jeered at and flouted for not having fine clothes."

"Oh, she won't want fine clothes at all," continued Sister Angela's sweet, earnest voice. "But, Lisbeth, listen: in my own old home I have a dear little sister just nine years old, a wee bit bigger than you, and every year she sends me a box of dresses she has outgrown to give away to little girls that I know. I have three of the dresses left, pretty dresses, that my dear mother made herself. One is pink and one is blue —and one all pure white. If you will come to school in my garden, Lisbeth, I will give them all three to you — if Gran will let you come"

"Oh, Gran—" Lisbeth drew a long breath and her little brown face kindled into strange glow and light. "Say yes" Gran, please — say I can go," she pleaded as the two visitors arose. "Please, Gran, please." "Let go the lady's dress," said Gran fiercely, for Lisbeth was holding to Sister Angela's habit as if she feared this sweet new hope was escaping from her forever.

"Ye can try it since they ask ye, try it for a while at least. I'm not promising I'll let ye keep
it up — but ye can try it for a while."

"Come to-morrow then, little Lisbeth, and try it," said Sister Angela as the child caught her hand in a rapturous squeeze.

"You know St. Mary's, the great stone house with the spire and cross? "I will expect you tomorrow at three" — and again Sister Angela's kiss, light and soft as the touch of a rose leaf, fell upon Lisbeth's brow, and with pleasant good-byes to Gran the visitors were gone. As they disappeared among the thorn flowers Gran's withered old face grew hard and dark again.

"Why I'm letting you go I don't know," she said. "The boys will be dead agi'n it, sure. But mind now, there's to be no prating, no talking about what we say and do at home. I'll have no meddlers brought down upon us — no tricks, mind ye," concluded Gran as she fixed her dim, bleared eyes on Lisbeth, "or ye'll be whisked off in a hurry, how and where I won't say."

To be continued. . . . . on Monday.

IT was the First Friday at St. Mary's.

There was a sweet, reverent hush in the house that the laughing voices in the play room and playground did not seem to break; little white-veiled girls, making their Hours of Guard, stole noiselessly in and out of the chapel, were the Sisters knelt in pairs, motionless as statues, and through all the wide corridors there was a faint fragrance of incense, like a soft whisper of prayer.

Blending with it to-day was a strange, new, wildwood sweetness, the breath of thorn flowers, that heaped the vases and made a very glory of white bloom among the ferns and palms and tapers of the Altar Throne, the thorn flowers from Lisbeth's home. What they whispered to Sister Angela we cannot say, but there was a soft, misty brightness in her eyes, an eager flush upon her cheek as, her Hour of Guard over, she went to find Mother Madelina in her little tower room to which old and young brought their fears and doubts and cares.

"May I have just two minute's talk with you, dear Mother?" said Sister Angela, sinking down on a cushion at the good Mother's feet.

"Certainly, my child; twenty minutes if you wish," was the answer.

"Oh, Mother, I can't say my prayers for thinking of that poor little lamb," said Sister Angela in a trembling voice.

"What poor little lamb, my dear?"

"The little girl I told you about last night, that gave us the thorn flowers, that tore her poor little hands and face gathering them for me, that was so - so pitifully glad just because I spoke a kind, friendly word. Dear Mother, when I saw the thorn flowers to-day on the altar, all white and lovely, I felt that I must bring this poor lamb out of the Brambles to our dear Lord's feet. She lives in a dreadful place, I know, and you said last night I must never take the children there again, and of course I will not; but may I not go myself, dear Mother?"

"To Thornwood!" said Mother Madelina in a troubled voice. "My dear Angela- no, I am afraid you cannot. Some of the St. Vincent de Paul men went out there last winter, thinking the old woman was in need, and one of the sons was at home and most abusive. He said they were not beggars, and fairly drove the visitors from the door. For some reasons, and I fear not very good ones, these Lornes want to keep to themselves. It would be unwise, imprudent to intrude upon them."

"If you say so, dear Mother, there is nothing to be done," said Sister Angela cheerfully, though her bright face fell. "But I'll risk a visit if you will let me Sister Barbara would go with me, and we would take a little basket of convent cakes, and oh, dear Mother, there is a low whisper in my heart that tells me we will win our way - find this little stray lamb in the Brambles and bring her home."

"Angela, Angela!" Mother Madelina laughed and shook her head. "When you talk like that I lose my wisdom and wits. How old is this child?"

"Oh, I don't know," answered Sister Angela. "She might be a hundred by her sad, tired little face. I suppose she is really about eight or nine, and so pale and thin, just like a bare little flower stalk, without any life or bloom. Mother, when I saw all our happy little ones crowding around our Lord's altar this morning, and thought of this poor child who has perhaps never heard His Holy Name--?

"Go get her," said Mother Madelina impulsively. "I cant refuse you, Angela. Take sister Barbara with you and go get the child if you can. But don't blame me if they set the dogs on you both," added the old Mother with a smile.

"Oh, we won't, we won't," said Sister Angela joyously as she took Mother Madelina's wrinkled hand and pressed it to her lips. "We'll bless you and thank you whatever happens. But nothing will happen that is not good. It's the First Friday, dear Mother, the day of love and grace, so all will be right, I know."

And Sister Angela hurried away to find Sister Barbara, a strong, hardy old lay Sister, who had been through battles and fever and earthquake in her forty years of service and, as she stoutly declared, was not afraid of man, woman, or devil "as long as she was doing God's holy will."

Together they packed a little basket with crisp, spicy convent cakes, two red apples, and some peppermint sticks, Sister Barbara adding a little package of her own.

"Snuff," "she said to Sister Angela with a wise nod. "My brother sends me a pound every Christmas; he takes it himself, and believes it's good for me, poor man. I keep it to give the old women that come begging to the door. We'll try it on the old Granny at Thornwood.

"I knew the place well once," said Sister Barbara as she and Sister Angela went on their way through the streets of the pretty little, mountain town and off into the woods beyond. "In my young days there wasn't a grander home than Thornwood far and near. The grass was green and smooth as velvet, and the roses were climbing over the porch and walls, and the side windows opened to the sunshine. They came from the old country, the Lawtons, and they brought all its: proud ways. And Pride is the devil's own sin, as we know, Sister, and always has its fall."

"It must have been a very bad fall indeed then," said Sister Angela as she thought of the ruined old house, its broken porch, its crumbling walls.

"It was a quarrel," continued the old Sister, "the worst of all quarrels, between father and son — both of the same strong, proud, hard stock. The mother was dead, and Mr. Arthur was the only child. What the trouble was about no one ever knew, for the Lawtons were proud people and kept their own counsel.

"Some said it was about a foreign marriage on which Mr. Arthur had set his heart; but there were high words between father and son in the library one night, and the servants heard Mr. Arthur leave the house swearing that neither he nor his would ever cross its threshold again.

"And the old man answered as men answer when the devils of pride and passion are ruling them —with a wicked curse. A stroke fell upon him that same night, but he lived long enough to sign away everything he could to a distant cousin in England.

"But he could not sign away the house or grounds; by his own father's will that had to go down from father to son after the old country fashion. "And so as Mr. Arthur kept his proud word and never came back, Thornwood was closed and deserted. There was no money to pay for its care, no one would buy, no one would rent it. Foolish stories got about that the old man haunted the house, until the negroes would go a mile around rather than pass the gates after nightfall. Then the new road was cut across the valley and there was no need to pass at all, and Thornwood, lost among its briers and brambles, was almost forgotten until about two years ago, when these Lornes came and took possession. That is the story of Thornwood, and a sad story it is, my dear," concluded Sister Barbara with a little sigh. "It's the fall of Pride, as I said; Pride that won't bend or bow, that can't forgive or forget."

And they turned into the Brambles as she spoke — the Brambles that grew thick and dark about the ruined home. It had been a long day for little Lisbeth. Gran had come down from Top Notch very cross indeed, and when Gran was very cross she kept Lisbeth very busy. There was no swinging on the broken gate, no light-footed wandering through the budding woods gathering the sweet gum oozing through the brown bark and pressing it into make-believe candy, no friendly peeps through the cedar boughs at the two little birds busily building their nest, no "hippity hopping" from stone to stone through the brook, whose dancing waters were as yet rather cool to wade in. None of these pleasant things at all today. Gran had suddenly discovered the winter's grime on the kitchen floor, that all the pots and pans in the old kitchen dresser were rusty or black, that a whole army of "pizen" spiders had possession of the cobwebbed rafters, that, in short, spring house cleaning should begin at once.

So all day long Lisbeth had been scouring and scrubbing, as hard as her little brown hands could scour and scrub, while Gran scolded and grumbled and nagged. Really, as there had been no house cleaning at Thornwood for more years than Lisbeth could count, it was rather a hopeless task.
 
But no task seemed altogether hopeless today there was such a strange new lightness in Lisbeth's little heart. It was as if the wonderful events of yesterday had broken up its dead stillness and set it to dancing and bubbling as the little brook in the hollow was dancing and bubbling in the springtime sun.

All night long she had dreamed of the visitors that had come down the rocky roadway, the pretty little girls with their braids and bows and buttoned boots, thesweet-faced lady in the white-frilled bonnet, the dear, soft-voiced lady who had asked her for thorn flowers, who had been so sorry when she scratched her hands and face, who had kissed her when she went away. Kissed, her! Lonely little Lisbeth seemed to feel the touch of that light kiss still. If she could just see that sweet, kind-voiced lady that had kissed her once again! But she would not of course — such a wonderful, beautiful thing could never happen twice — for in Lisbeth's brief experience nothing very pleasant ever happened twice.

Uncle Lem had brought her a doll once, a tin wagon once, a big sugar Easter egg once, but never again. And something in the nice little girls' faces, as they stood by the roadside staring at Lisbeth on the broken gate told her they would never want to come through the Brambles again. There was one little girl she' thought of especially, a little girl with long, soft, yellow hair, tied with a blue ribbon under a big blue hat, that had seemed to Lisbeth the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. Altogether Lisbeth had so much to think of today that Gran's nagging fell on a dulled ear.

"Get another pail of water now and scrub that shelf, ye lazy minx. What have I been feeding ye for all these years if ye can't do a hand's turn of work now? Where would ye look for bit and sup if I was gone? It's poor picking ye'd get from them boys up on the hills, I can tell ye that. It's begging yer bread in the street ye'd be if ye had to look to them. Why I 'm bothering with a puny whipstick of a child that will never be any good to me, I don't know. Fill the kettle now; we want scalding water to pour in that rat hole beyond, or they'll be eating us alive. Bring the broom till I knock these bats out of the chimney. Bring the broom, the broom! ye lazy legs don't ye hear? No!"

Though the cracked, quavering voice rose into a shrill, angry shriek behind her, Lisbeth did not hear. She stood on the broken kitchen step, the pail of water she was bringing from the well in her hand, staring breathless, motionless at the weed-grown path. Something had happened—twice. Round the corner of the old house, through the pines, past the thorn bushes, her lady was coming again, the lady who had kissed her yesterday!

And there was another with her, another with the same queer bonnet and ruffled cap. The pail dropped from Lisbeth's hand, the water streamed out over steps and yard, the breathless little girl turned, only to stagger back over the kitchen threshold under a stinging blow from the angry old woman's knotty hand.

"Ye stupid, staring gawk!" cried Gran. "Look what ye've done now. I'll learn ye, ye little sneaking slouch, I'll learn ye how to come when I call ye. I'll learn ye — ""Oh, Gran — no* no, don't beat me now, don't," panted Lisbeth, forgetful for the moment of pain or fear, "The lady is coming, Gran, the nice lady that was here yesterday and asked me for thorn flowers."

"Lady—thorn flowers! coming here!" gasped Gran, from whom Lisbeth had wisely kept all knowledge of the previous visit.

"What is it ye're talking about? Have ye been prating to meddling strangers while I was gone, and they're coming here again to peep and pry today ? Oh, I'll settle with ye for this, I'll settle with ye for this! Back with) ye, back out of my sight, and don't open your mouth for good or bad while they are here, or I'll take the skin off ye when they're gone. I'll talk to your company today." And taking Lisbeth roughly by the shoulder, Gran flung her back into the kitchen, while, with her arms akimbo, her fierce old face flushed with rage, her sunken, eyes glaring, she stood defiantly on the threshold, looking indeed like some angry old wild cat guarding her den.

To be continued. . . . .

WINTER had gone at last.
   
It had been a long, hard winter in the Brambles, with the roads blocked high with snowdrifts, the brook frozen, even the stately pines stiff and still in coats of ice.
   
A long, gloomy winter too, in the old house, that stood far back in the thorn bushes, as if it were trying to hide its patched windows and tumbling walls from passers-by.
   
And a long, dull, dreary winter for poor Lisbeth, with only Gran grumbling and scolding over the smoky fire, and Dirck, the big wolfhound, for company all the dark, cold day.
   
True, the "boys," as Gran still called her two tall sons, came home sometimes to bring flour and meal and bacon to their old mother, to heap the great fireplace with wood, and sit around it drinking, smoking, playing cards, quarrelling often, until break of day. But Lisbeth was always in her little bed during these visits. Uncle Lem, it is true, had brought her a doll at Christmas, and sometimes left her a paper bag of candy; otherwise Gran's "boys" forgot her quite.
    
But now the lonely, gloomy winter had gone; the last snow wreath had vanished from the crest of Top Notch, the brook was tumbling through the hollow, wild with glee, there was a twitter of birds in the tree tops, and the thorn bushes were in full bloom, the thorn bushes that never seemed to wait for leaf or bud, but burst from spiky bough into snowy flowers almost in a night.

Swinging upon a broken gate to-day, with the white bloom of the thorn bushes around her, Lisbeth felt with a joyous tingle in her little heart the touch of spring.
    Soon the trees would be shady and green, the "ways" that led through the Brambles bright with flowers; ripe, sweet berries would grow thick among the briers; people would come riding and walking down the lonely roads. Lisbeth paused suddenly in her swinging a distant sound- they were coming even now - for there was a murmur of happy, young voices, and gay laughter in the air, and Lisbeth's brown eyes opened wide indeed, in amaze, for around the bend of the road trooped a crowd of little girls, almost her own age, such little girls as seldom strayed into the Brambles. They had curls and braids tied with ribbons, and wore pretty coats and hats and high, buttoned shoes without patch or break.
    They had been far out in the woods, gathering budding boughs and pussy willows and the first scant greenery of early spring, and they came down the rough road skipping and laughing around a sweet-faced lady, who wore a black dress and a curios bonnet with "white frills." They were "nice" little girls, as Lisbeth saw at a glance like those she sometimes watched wistfully, playing before  white-porched houses when Gran sent her to town on errands, but who always stopped jumping rope and stared and whispered until she passed.
    And they stopped staring and whispering as they saw her swinging on the broken gate to-day. Only the sweet faced lady broke into a little cry of delight. "O my dear children, look, look what beautiful flowers! and in perfect bloom! And so many of them too! I never saw anything lovelier. They seem to be growing wild around this old house - Nellie, Grace ask the little girl on the gate if you may go in and gather some for our alter to-morrow!"
   
But Nellie and Grace shrank back to Sister Angela's side. "Oh, Sister, we can't, we're we're afraid."
   
"Afraid of what?" asked Sister Angela.

"Oh don't you know, Sister? That that's Thornwood," half a dozen voices whispered eagerly and excited information to Sister Angela.
   
"And- its- haunted - nobody would live there for years and years- and dreadful people are staying there now."
   
"What kind of dreadful people?" asked Sister Angela, her clear eyes searching the silent house.
   
"Oh, the old women is a gypsy, or witch, or something awful," murmured an excited chorus.
   
"A witch! Nonsense!" Sister Angela's laugh rang out like a chime of silver bells. "There are no such things as witches out of fairy tales - as I thought all my little girls knew."
   
"You must not believe such foolish stories. We will have a talk about this in Instruction class to-morrow; meantime wait here, and I will get some of those lovely flowers myself."
   
"Oh, Sister! no, please," pleaded half a dozen frightened voices. "Nobody ever goes in there - nobody, Sister Angela."
   
"Somebody is going in now," was the bright answer as Sister Angela gently detached the clinging hands that tried to with hold her and turned to the broken gate, where Lisbeth still hung, a pitiful little figure indeed, in comparison with the happy flock without. Her course frock was torn, her old blue jacked burst across the shoulders, her hair, soft and curly, fell in tangles about her little thing brown face. The dark eyes that looked up at Sister Angela were dull and listless, the young mouth had no dimpling smile like the happy children near.

With a thrill of pity in her tender heart, Sister Angela saw that this was the saddest of all earth's creatures- a little child uncared for, untaught, unloved.

"Do you live here, my dear?" asked the good Sister softly.

Lisbeth stared for a moment without answering. It seemed quite impossible that this gentle, friendly question could be meant for her. "My dear!" When had anybody ever called Lisbeth "my dear" before? Then, as Sister Angela seemed to wait smiling for an answer, she looked up into the kind face and nodded twice. It came easier than saying "yes."

"I and my little girls her are from St. Mary's School," Sister Angela continued. "We are out gathering flowers for our altar. To-morrow is a beautiful day with us, the first Friday of the month." The speaker paused-the little face looking up into hers was so blank and uncomprehending. Lisbeth knew nothing about altars or First Fridays, as Sister Angela could see.

But the gentle speaker went on brightly, "The woods are quite bare, we haven't found one single little flower until we came here. Your bushes are so full of beautiful bloom - may I pick a few of these lovely blossoming boughs? You will not miss them, I am sure."

A sudden light flashed into Lisbeth's face. This sweet-voiced lady was asking her for thorn flowers. Asking her, little Lisbeth!

Never in all her eight years of life had she been asked for gift or help before.

It sent an odd, warm thrill through her little form, such as perhaps the bare brown flower stalks fell at the first touch of spring-time sun.

"Yes, you can have them," she said. "You can have all you want."

"Perhaps we had better ask your mother, too," Sister Angela, hesitating a little as she looked again at the dark, silent house.

"I ain't got no mother," said Lisbeth quickly. "I ain't got no father or mother or nobody but Gran, and she is up to Top Notch a-seeing the 'boys,' You can have all the thorn flowers you want. But wait, lady-" Lisbeth made a quick jump from the swinging gate.

"I'll get them for you. Don't you try to pick 'em yourself, you'll get scratched."

She sprang away to the back of the old house, and came running out again quickly with a broken knife. In a moment she was down among the thorn bushes, cutting and hacking with a reckless little hand.

The prickly boughs flew into her face, caught her hair, tore her fingers, but she cut on, conscious only of the strange new sweetness of giving to the gentle speaker, shows voice was pleading anxiously now. "Oh my dear child, take care, take, care, take care. Don't go so deep in the bushes; they are tearing your clothes, and scratching your hands."

"Oh, I don't mind, I don't mind," said Lisbeth, plunging further into the thicket. "They're prettier  and whiter and whiter back her. I'll get you all you want."

"Oh, we have quite enough now, quite, enough, all we need - all we can carry home. Oh, you poor, dear child," cried Sister Angela as Lisbeth emerged from the thorn bushes, a big scratch across her cheek, her hands bleeding, but her thin little arms full of snowy bloom. "I didn't mean you to tear yourself to pieces like this."

"I don't mind," repeated Lisbeth, and her little brown face and big dull eyes were alight with new life. "I'll get you some more if you want them, lots and heaps more - and - and I don't want no money for them," added Lisbeth as Sister Angela, seeing the dire poverty around her, put her hand in her pocket.

"Nobody pays for thorn flowers, they're so scratchy, and - die so quick. I want to give them to you - ' cause you asked me - so kind and nice."

"And you shall give them to me," said Sister Angela with a little catch in her voice. "Oh, they are lovely, so white and sweet and beautiful to grow on such thorny boughs," said the good Sister as she gathered the snowy blossoms in her arms.

"Thank you again and again for them, my dear little girl!" And moved by one of her sweet, tender impulses, Sister Angela bent and kissed Lisbeth's upraised brow.

And Lisbeth's little heart leaped with joy that almost too her breath. Never in all her remembrance had anyone kissed her before.

"Oh, Sister Angela!" was the amazed murmur, as with her arms full of Lisbeth's thorn flowers the "sweet-faced lady" joined the little crowd waiting in the road beyond the gate.

"How could you kiss that horrid little girl?"

Sister Angela was young, little more than a girl herself. Everybody wondered when a few years ago she had folded up her ball dresses, put away her dancing slippers, tucked up all her soft, golden curls under the white-frilled cap of a nun. But as the oldest and wisest of the other Sisters agreed, Angela had a "way with children" they could not reach.

Perhaps because she was still a child in heart herself - innocent, loving, and trusting. But now she grew suddenly grave at the jealous outcry.

"Yes, I kissed that dear little girl," she answered. "Why do you call her horrid?"

"Oh - because - because she's all, all ragged and dirty - and belongs to those dreadful Lornes; nobody knows them or even speaks to them," eager little voices assured Sister Angela, who had come only last New Year to take charge of the "Primary" at St. Mary's.

"Let us talk it over," said Sister Angela as they kept down the rough, winding road. "She is ragged and dirty; we'll agree; but suppose you had no kind, good father to buy you clothes, no dear mother to make and mend them for you, no laundress to keep them fresh and clean. Suppose you lived in a grim, dark, old house, where there was no heat, no water, no bath- I am afraid you would be ragged and dirty too."

"Oh, Sister Angela! but - but we're not," put in her little hearers quickly.

"No, you're not; but only, my children, because God has blessed you with tender, loving parents, with happy homes. We do not understand why it is that He gives so much of this world's goods to some, so little to others; but He knows what is best. This poor little girl in the Brambles is His child, just the same as you."

"Oh, Sister! not just the same," said Nellie Byrne, slipping her hand lovingly into her dear teacher's arm.

"She never goes to church, or school or anything; and some of the Charity Board visitors went to seem them and the old grandmother would not let them in. Carrie Baker's aunt was one of the ladies, and she said the old woman was fierce as a wild cat."

"Then it is well that she was no at home to-day," laughed Sister Angela , who was never solemn with her children very long at a time. "We would not have had our thorn flowers. Oh, how that poor little girl tore her face and hands getting them for me - just because I asked her kindly and nicely! I had to kiss her for thanks. Our altar will be a glory of white bloom and beauty and sweetness.

"And when you kneel before it, and thank God for all the blessings that He has given you, my dear children, we must not forget the poor little girl in the Brambles, God's little stray, white lamb."