“Now Vi’s tex’, mamma,” lisped the little one on her knee. “‘Jesus wept.’”

“Why did Jesus weep, little daughter?”

“’Cause He so tired? so sick? naughty mans so cross to Him?”

“No, dear; it was not for any sorrow or trouble of His own that Jesus shed those tears.  Can you tell us why it was, Elsie?”

“Yes, mamma; He was so sorry for poor Martha and Mary, ’cause their brother Lazarus was dead.”

“Yes, and for all the dreadful sufferings and sorrows that sin has brought into the world.  We are not told that Jesus wept for His own trials and pains; but He wept for others.  We must try to be like Him; to bear our own troubles patiently, and to feel for the grief and pain of other people.

“We must try to keep these thoughts in our hearts all the day long:  that God is love; that Jesus is our help in every trouble and temptation, that He feels for us, and we must feel for others, and do what we can to make them happy.  Now we will kneel down and ask the dear Saviour to help us to do this.”

The prayer was very short and simple; so that even Baby Vi could understand every word.

There was a moment’s quiet after they had risen from their knees; then the children went to the window to look out upon the grounds, which they had hardly seen last night.

“Mamma!” said Elsie.  “I see a brook away over yonder; and there are big trees there, and nice green grass.  Mamma, is that where you and Aunt Sophie and Uncle Harold used to play when you were a little girl?”

“Yes, daughter.”

“Oh, mamma, please tell us again about the time when you waded in the brook, and thought you’d lost your rings; and dear grandpa was so kind and didn’t scold or punish you at all.”

“Yes, mamma, do tell it.”

“Please mamma, do,” joined in the other little voices; and mamma kindly complied.

That story finished, it was, “Now, mamma, please tell another; please tell about the time when you wanted to go with the school children to pick strawberries, and grandpa said ‘No.’”

“Ah, I was rather a naughty little girl that time, and cried because I couldn’t have my own way,” answered the mother musingly, with a dreamy look in her eyes and a tender smile playing about her lips as she almost seemed to hear again the loved tones of her father’s voice, and to feel the clasp of his arm as he drew her to his knee and laid her head against his breast, asking, “Which was my little daughter doubting, this afternoon—­papa’s wisdom, or his love?”

But her own little Elsie’s arm had stolen about her neck, the cherry lips were pressed again and again to her cheek, and the sweet child voice repelled the charge with indignation.

“Mamma, you couldn’t help the tears coming when you were so disappointed; and that was all.  You didn’t say one naughty word.  And grandpa says you were the best little girl he ever saw.”