THE night having passed, in the morning the missionary felt satisfied that he could not find his way back to the settlement which he had left. For a time he tried to find the old road by which he had come; but failing in this, he directed his steps eastward. His bewilderment having entirely left him, his heart was joyous and his step light. Although the people of the settlement to which he was returning, were comparatively strangers to him, he felt assured that many of them were Christians more than in name, and others who did not bear that name were kind-hearted and charitable. Here was a work for him to do.

 The day was rapidly advancing; and the elastic step of the morning had slackened to a laborious effort to reach his destination.

Hark! What sound is that? The tinkling of a bell! He now knew that he was nearing the settlement. Pushing on, he saw to his right several openings, and beyond smoke curling up. He at length reached the gate leading into the yard in front of a farm-house. Everything had a neat and comfortable appearance. That he might here obtain relief, was now his ardent desire.

A dog that lay before the door, observing the stranger at the gate, offered a decided resistance to his entrance. The attention of Mr. Brown, the farmer, was thus attracted, and coming out of the house to see what was the matter, he was struck with the forlorn appearance of the stranger; and with feelings of pity invited him in. The kind look and cordial welcome touched the missionary’s heart, and it was with difficulty that he kept[41] back the tears. Taking up his satchel, Mr. Brown led the way into the house, and introduced him as “a suffering stranger.”

After a few remarks respecting his present situation, he commenced to relate what had befallen him during the past few days. The whole family gathered round to hear his pitiful story; and all were greatly moved by the recital of his sufferings.

“You must now lie down and rest,” kindly insisted Mrs. Brown. “I have a comfortable bed prepared for you in the adjoining room. Henry, my boy, will you show the way?”

Henry was a lad about ten years old. A look at his open, honest face at once prepossessed you in his favor. He immediately did what his mother desired.

“Mother,” said little blue-eyed Eliza, as soon as the stranger had disappeared, “who is this sick man, and what has he got in his satchel there in the corner?”

“Why, my dear child,” replied her mother,[42] “you should never ask two questions at once. Answering your last question first, I do not know what is in the satchel, nor should my little girl be curious about that which does not concern her. As to the man, he is the missionary who traveled through here last week, trying to get up a Sunday-school in our neighborhood.”

“A Sunday-school, mother! School on Sunday! Why he must be a wicked man to keep school on Sunday! I don’t want to go.”

Her mother never having been in a Sunday-school herself, scarcely knew how to explain to her daughter the difference between it and an ordinary day school. So she simply said:

“It is not a school like ours down at the ‘Cross Roads,’ but one in which we read the Bible, and sing and pray, and are taught to love the Saviour.”

“O, mother!” exclaimed the child, “then[43] I would like to go. Do tell the man to have one in our school-house. Will you mother?”

“Yes, child, I will ask him if he gets well again.”

“I hope he will get well soon,” said Eliza, and bounded off to tell Henry the news. He saw her coming, and as her manner showed that she was greatly pleased, he called out in one breath,

“What have you got? Who gave it to you?”

“I have nothing,” she replied; “nobody gave me anything.”

“Yes there did,” said Henry.

“No there didn’t,” curtly answered Eliza.

“What tickles you so then,” rejoined Henry in a milder tone.

By this time Eliza’s ardor was quite dampened by Henry’s manner, so she merely replied:

“I will tell you to-morrow,” and then left him.

But Henry did not feel like waiting. No[44] sooner was she gone than he again sought her, more anxious than ever to know what had so excited her.

“I will tell you,” she said, “if you won’t be so cross to me next time,” evidently feeling that she had the advantage of him.

“I wasn’t cross. I’ll always be good and nice,” said Henry, glad to come to terms, for he felt very curious.

Eliza then sat down and told him all that her mother had said about the Sunday-school, occasionally adding an exclamation of her own to make it seem more important.