THE LITTLE SILK-WINDER. CHAPTER I. ISABEL. Sing them, my children, sing them still, Oh, let the psalms of Zion's hill Be heard from youthful tongues! It is many years ago since the following simple story was related by a kind friend to her youthful relatives. There was a poor little silk-winding girl, employed at one of our great factories, whose name was Isabel. Every day, and all day long, except at the short intervals allowed for meals, she worked from the dawning to the setting sun, and sometimes even later. There were moments when she could not help envying those who were not obliged to toil so hard: but this did not often happen, for she was blessed with a cheerful and 7 Her parents both contented spirit; and she might far more frequently be heard thanking God that she had health to labour, for she was an orphan, and had no one to work for her. died when she was very young. They were poor but honest people, and taught her to love and fear Him who has promised to be "the Father of the fatherless:" so that Isabel did not feel so lonely when they were taken away, as she would otherwise have done. "A little while," said her mother, with her dying breath, "and we shall all be together again thanks to that blessed Saviour who loved us and gave himself for us." "A little while," repeated the orphan child, afterwards,-" only a little while." And she would often look up and smile as she thought of the heavenly home which Jesus had purchased for her with his own life. This it was that made Isabel so cheerful and happy. It was the bright summer-time, when the master of the factory announced his intention to give all the work-people a holiday: "A whole long day," as Isabel called it, "to do what they pleased in." Most of the young people had some friend or relative to visit; but the poor silk-winding girl was an orphan, and alone in the world. Having nowhere to go, she thought what a pleasant thing it would be to spend the day in the woods, to look at the blue sky, to hear the birds sing, and to gather wildflowers, as she used to do when a child. The eventful morning arrived, clear and sunny. Isabel arose with the lark, thinking of the long, happy day before her. But she did not forget, ere she went forth on her glad holiday, to kneel down and pray. Her heart was full of joy and thankfulness, and she longed to do something for Him who had done so much for her. But what could she do? She was only a little child. The clock struck six as Isabel went into the woods singing. She knew a great many hymns, and had a habit of singing them to herself when alone. Early as it was, there was one up before her—a pale, stern-looking man, who was crouching beneath the shadow of the trees as she passed: a second Cain, lying in wait to take away a brother's life. The song which Isabel was singing happened to be one learned years ago, at his mother's knee. The memory of his innocent and happy childhood came back to him as though it were but yesterday. The little golden-haired brother with whom he used to play-how they loved one another then! How often had they wandered together, with their arms around each other's necks, singing that very hymn! The man's countenance changed as he recalled those old times; the weapon dropped from his grasp; and as he kneeled down with clasped hands, his tears fell fast. A human life-it may be that a human soul-was saved. But Isabel knew it not, as she passed on singing. Just within the wood there was a rude hut, inhabited by a poor old woman, who earned a scanty living in the summer-time, gathering watercresses, or making up nosegays of honeysuckle, sweet-brier, and wild-flowers, which she sold at the neighbouring town; and managed to exist in winter by knitting coarse woollen stockings and comforters, which the villagers were glad to purchase of her, for a trifling sum. But she was too ill now to gather flowers or watercresses, or even to knit. She lay upon her bed helpless and hungry, and with a sad feeling of desertion pressing heavily upon her heart. She had forgotten-as we are so apt to do-God's mercies in times past, and how he has promised that he will never leave nor forsake those who put their trust in him. But it all came back to her as Isabel went by, singing one of her sweet and cheerful hymns, one that the old woman knew well; for, although now. desponding by reason of her infirmities, she was a humble and sincere Christian. The burden of Isabel's song was, "Trust in God." "Yes," replied the poor old woman, crossing her thin hands, and lifting up her dim eyes to heaven: "Though he slay me, yet will I trust in him.' 'Why art thou cast down, O my soul? and why art thou disquieted within me? Hope thou in God: for I shall yet praise him, who is the health of my countenance, and my God.' Isabel passed on singing; and after a time, He who commanded the ravens to feed Elijah, when he sojourned in the wilderness by the little brook Cherith, put it into the heart of one of his children to go and take some nourishing food to the poor, feeble old woman, who lay sick and helpless in her little hut in the wood. There were many sad hearts on that bright, sunny morning. There always are, somewhere in the world. A bereaved mother stood by the death-bed of her little child-her only child *Ps. xlii. 11.. |