to them to come to tea.  What a pleasant meal it was, and how the little company enjoyed themselves.  Then, when it was over, Mr. Goldthwaite took Tom to the garden, and drew him on to talk of himself, of his hopes and ambitions, and sympathized so heartily and cheerfully with him that Tom began to think it was worth while coming to Thankful Rest, if for nothing else than this pleasant hour at the parsonage.  Meanwhile Carrie had opened the piano, and sang low and softly one or two hymns; and when she looked round, wondering why Lucy had moved from her side, she saw her on the sofa with her face hidden.  She rose, and sitting down beside her, put her arm about her, and whispered gently,—­

“My poor child, what is it?”

“Mamma, Miss Goldthwaite,” sobbed Lucy.  “She used always to sing to us on Sunday evenings just so, and it makes me feel dreadful to think she never will any more.”

“Yes, Lucy, I understand,” said Carrie; and the very sound of her voice soothed the child’s troubled heart.  “But you know who has promised to comfort the mourning heart if we will but ask Him?  Our God is ‘the Father of mercies, and the God of all comfort.’”

A quick smile broke through Lucy’s tears.  “If it were not for that, Miss Goldthwaite,” she said simply, “I should have died when mamma did.”

“And just think, dear,” went on the sweet voice, “of the glad time coming when we shall all meet, please God, in a happier world than this.  We shall not remember these sad hours then, shall we, Lucy?  I know, my dear, how lonely and sad and strange you feel here now; but God can make us happy anywhere.”

“Yes, Miss Carrie, I know it,” returned the child simply and earnestly; “only I am so troubled sometimes about Tom.  Mamma was often troubled about him too.  He is so passionate and quick and proud.  Oh, I don’t know how he is to get on with Uncle Joshua and Aunt Hepsy!”

“We will hope for the best,” said Miss Carrie cheerfully; “and by-and-by, perhaps, a way may be opened up for him to get his heart’s desire.—­Would you like to see my pets, Lucy?  I have chickens, and pigeons, and dogs, and kittens, and all sorts of things.  Frank says the yard is a menagerie.”

“Yes, I would like it very much.  There are some pretty chickens and kittens at Aunt Hepsy’s, but she won’t let me pet them.”

In the delight of examining Miss Goldthwaite’s menagerie sadder thoughts flew, and the evening sped on golden wings.  The time came at last for the two to bid a regretful good-bye to the parsonage and turn their faces homewards.  The minister and his sister accompanied them half across the meadow, and bade them good-night, with many promises of future meetings.

Tom and Lucy walked on in silence till they reached the paddock, and then the lad said abruptly, “It will not be so hard to live here, Lucy, if we can see them sometimes.  I don’t believe there’s another minister like Mr. Goldthwaite in the State; nor another minister’s sister either.”