A Little Girl in Old Salem. Amanda M. Douglas

but much silver. Chilian surveyed it with admiration.

      "That must stand in the parlor," he decided. "But some one must come and help. I'm afraid I am not sufficiently robust. Silas, see if you can't find the Uphams' man. He was working there a short time ago."

      "If there's more to come, it is hardly worth while to clear up," began Elizabeth. "I hope it will soon follow."

      Chilian directed the two men, who found it still quite a burthen. Elizabeth opened the parlor shutter unwillingly, and the men set it in the middle of the floor.

      There were two large rooms held almost sacred by both sisters. They were separated by an archway, apparently upheld on each end by a fluted column. Both rooms had a wide chimney-piece, the mantel and its supports elaborately carved and painted white. Two windows were in each end, draped with soft crimson curtains. The floor was polished, with a rug laid down in the centre. It was furnished in a manner that would have delighted a connoisseur, but Elizabeth did not admire the conglomeration. They were family relics and seemed to have little relation with one another, yet they were harmonious. There was a thin-legged spinet, with a Latin legend running across the front of the cover, which was always down. The chairs were not made for lounging, that was plain; and the sofa, with its rolling ends and claw feet, had been polished until the haircloth looked like satin. A dead and gone Leverett bride had imported that from London.

      When the East Indian article had been consigned to an appropriate space, it looked as much at home as if it had lived there half a century. Then the parlor was shut up again, the mat in the hall shaken out, the front door bolted. Miss Winn had asked for a hammer and chisel that she might open one of the boxes.

      "Take Silas. That is a man's work," said Chilian.

      Cynthia was in the sitting-room, where it was still chilly enough to have a fire. Eunice was knotting fringe for a bedspread, and it interested the child wonderfully. She was not a little shocked to find a child of nine knew nothing about sewing, had never hemmed ruffles, nor done overseam, or knit, or it seemed anything useful.

      "Why, when I was a little girl of your age I could spin in the little wheel."

      "What did you spin?"

      "Why, thread, of course, linen thread made from flax."

      "Were you a truly little girl?" in surprise.

      "Why, child, don't you know anything?" Then Miss Eunice laughed softly and patted the small shoulder, looking kindly into the wondering eyes. There was no hurt in her tone and the words rather amused.

      "I know a great many things. I can read some Latin, and I know about Greece and its splendid heroes who conquered a good deal of the world. There was Alexander the Great and Philip of Macedon. And Tamerlane, who conquered nearly all Asia. And—and Confucius, the great man of China, who was a wise philosopher, and wrote a bible——"

      "Oh, no; not a bible!" interrupted Miss Eunice, horrified. "There is only one Bible, my dear, and that is the Word of God."

      "But the other is the bible of the Chinese, and some of them believe Confucius was a god."

      "That is quite impossible, my dear;" in a rather decisive, but still gentle tone.

      "And there is Brahma, and Vishnu, and there are ever so many gods in India. The people pray to them. And temples. When they want anything very much, they go and pray for it. There was a woman whose little son was very ill, and if he lived he was going to be a great prince, or something, and she gathered up her precious stones and her necklace and took them to the temple for the god. Father sent an English doctor, but they wouldn't let him see the little boy. He was so pretty, too. I used to see him in the court."

      "And did he live?" Miss Eunice asked, much interested.

      "No; he didn't. And the father beat her for losing the jewels."

      "You see, those gods have no power."

      "Did you ever pray for anything you wanted very much?"

      Cynthia's bright eyes studied the placid face before her.

      "Yes," the lips murmured faintly.

      "And did you get it?"

      A flush stole over the puzzled countenance.

      "My dear, God doesn't see as we do. And He knows what is best for us, and gives us that. Maybe our prayer wasn't right."

      "How can you tell when a prayer is right or wrong?" inquired the young theologian.

      "Why, you have to leave that to God;" in a low, resigned tone.

      "I didn't want to come here. I wanted to stay with father. I didn't know there was any one beside, and I do not believe any one will ever love me so well. But he promised to come when the business was all done. So I prayed to the God of father's Bible, and I went to the temple with Nalla and put down a half-crown—it was all the money I had. But"—her eyes filled with tears and her voice had a break in it—"father begged so, and I came. But if Captain Corwin does not bring him next time I shall go back. I can't live without him."

      The mild blue eyes of Miss Eunice filled with tears as well. She was not sure this had been the wisest course. The absolute truth was always best. But she temporized also in a vague fashion.

      "Yes; you can tell then. And you may come to like us so well you may stay content."

      "Oh, if he comes! Then it will be all right. And you think I ought to pray for that?"

      It was a cruel strait for Miss Eunice and staggered her faith. She was not to lead astray or harm "one of the least of these." But the child was a heathen with no real knowledge of the true God. Like a vision almost, Miss Eunice looked back at her own childhood, and the awful, overshadowing power she believed was God, who wrote down every wicked thought and wrong deed, and would confront her with them at the Judgment Day. She prayed nightly, often in the night, when she woke up, and she was no surer of God's love than this little heathen child.

      "It is right to pray for the things we want, but to be resigned if God doesn't see fit to give them to us."

      "Then the prayers are thrown away. And do you know just what God is?"

      "My dear!" in a shocked tone, "no one can tell. It is one of the mysteries to be revealed when we see Him as He truly is at the last day. A little girl cannot understand it. I do not, and I have sought the truth many years. Now I am trusting, because I feel assured He will do what is right. Tell me something about your life with your father."