The old man wakens—­she has disturbed him.  Shall he stop her?—­no; he loves that little one, and he has not the heart to bid her be silent.  One after another she pours forth her sweet melodies, till at last her voice grows fainter and fainter, and soon she and her grandfather are both lying again in unbroken repose.  The morning comes.  The old man calls to him the petted one, and says:  “Lucy, why did you sing last night when you should have been asleep?  What were you singing?” Stopping her play she looks up and says brightly—­“I was singing to Jesus, grandpa, and you ought to sing to him, too.”

Why does he start and tremble, that stern, gray-headed man?  He has lived more than sixty years an unbeliever—­a despiser of the lowly Savior.  No thought of repentance or remorse has afflicted him—­no desire has he ever had to hear the words of eternal life.  He has trained up his family in ignorance of God, and only in his memory has the blessed Sabbath had a name since he went to his distant western home.

Not long ago a benevolent man passing through the town, gathered some of the ragged and forsaken little ones into a Sabbath-school, and bestowed on them the inestimable gift of a few small books.  The little Lucy heard from her young companions the wonderful story, and begged to go.  But she was sternly refused.  He wanted nothing with the Sabbath-school.  She could not be pacified, however, and at length with prayers and tears she was permitted to prevail.  She went, and returned with her Testament and little hymn-book, and with such joy and glee, that even her grandfather came to think the Sabbath-school an excellent thing.  Of that blessed school he is now a member, and is weekly found studying the word of God, as humbly and diligently as a little child.  The infidel of sixty years is a penitent follower of that Jesus to whom little Lucy sung her midnight song, and who out of the mouths of babes often perfects his praise.

But we cannot tarry here; let us journey on.  Our way lies through these woods.  Do you hear the sound of an axe?  Yonder is a woodman, and by his side a little boy.  We will approach.  Never fear.  Spirits cannot be discerned by mortal eyes, and though we come very near, they will be unconscious of our presence.  How attractive is childhood.  The little fellow is as merry as a lark, and chatters away to his father, who, with silent absorption pursues his work.  Suddenly his axe slips, and a large limb, which should have fallen in the other direction, descends with violence upon his foot.  Can spirits be deaf at pleasure?  If so we will quickly close our ears, for fearful is the torrent of oaths proceeding from the mouth of the infuriated man.  But where is the child?  Look at him where he stands; his innocent prattle hushed—­his whole appearance and attitude showing the utmost fear and distress.  Listen—­he speaks—­slowly and solemnly:  “Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain.”  Who made