“But Then.”

It was a queer name for a little girl, and it was not her real name—that was Lizzie—but everybody called her “But Then.”

“My real name is prettier, but then, I like the other pretty well,” she said, nodding her short, brown curls merrily. And that sentence shows just how she came by her name.

If Willie complained that it was a miserable, rainy day, and they couldn’t play out of doors, Lizzie assented brightly,—

“Yes; but then, it is a real nice day to fix our scrapbooks.”

When Kate fretted because they had so far to walk to school, her little sister reminded her,—

“But then, it’s all the way through the woods, you know, and that’s ever so much nicer than walking on pavements in a town.”

When even patient Aunt Barbara pined a little because the rooms in the new house were so few and small compared with their old home, a rosy face was quietly lifted to hers with the suggestion,—

“But then, little rooms are the best to cuddle all up together in, don’t you think, Auntie?”

“Better call her ‘Little But Then,’ and have done with it,” declared Bob, half-vexed, half-laughing. “No matter how bad any thing is, she is always ready with her ‘but then,’ and some kind of consolation on the end of it.”

And so, though no one really intended it, the new name began. There were a good many things that the children missed in their new home. Money could have bought them even there; but if the money had not gone first, their father would scarcely have thought it necessary to leave his old home. They had done what was best under the circumstances; still the boys felt rather inclined to grumble about it one winter morning when they were starting off to the village on an errand.

“Just look at all the snow going to waste, without our having a chance to enjoy it,” said Will; “and the ice too—all because we couldn’t bring our sleds with us when we moved.”

“But then, you might make one yourself, you know. It wouldn’t be quite so pretty, but it would be just as good,” suggested Little But Then.

“Exactly what I mean to do as soon as I get money enough to buy two or three boards; but I haven’t even that yet, and the winter is nearly half gone.”

“If we only had a sled to-day, Sis could ride, and we could go on the river,” said Bob. “It’s just as near that way, and we could go faster.”

“It is a pity,” admitted the little girl. “But then, I’ve thought of something—that old chair in the shed! If we turned it down, its back would be almost like runners, and so—”

“Hurrah! that’s the very thing!” interrupted the boys; and the old chair was dragged out in a twinkling, and carried down to the river. Then away went the merry party, laughing and shouting, on the smooth road between the snowy hills, while Gyp followed, frisking and barking, and seeming to enjoy the fun as much as any of them.

“Now we’ll draw our sled up here, close under the bank, where nobody will see it, and leave it while we go up to the store,” said Bob, when they had reached the village.

Their errand was soon done, and the children ready to return; but as they set forth Will pointed to a dark spot a little way out on the ice.

“What is that? It looks like a great bundle of clothes.”

It was a bundle that moved and moaned as they drew near, and proved to be a girl, a little bigger than Lizzie. She looked up when they questioned her, though her face was pale with pain.

“I slipped and fell on the ice,” she explained, “and I’m afraid I’ve broken my leg, for it is all twisted under me, and I can’t move it or get up. I live in the village. That’s my father’s carpenter shop where you see the sign. I could see it all the time, and yet I was afraid I’d freeze here before any one saw me. Oh dear! it doesn’t seem as if I could lie here while you go for my father.”

“Why, you needn’t,” began Bob; but the girl shook her head.

“I can’t walk a step, and you two are not strong enough to carry me all the way. You’d let me fall, or you’d have to keep stopping to rest; and putting me down and taking me up again would almost kill me.”

“Oh, but we’ll only lift you into the chair, just as carefully as we can, then we can carry you easy enough,” said Will.

And in that way the poor girl was borne safely home; and the children lingered long enough to bring the surgeon and hear his verdict that “Young bones don’t mind much being broken, and she will soon be about again, as well as ever.”

“BUT THEN, IT’S ALL THE WAY THROUGH THE WOODS, YOU KNOW.”

“But I don’t see how you happened to have a chair so handy,” said her father to the boys. And when they explained that they were using it for a sled, he said, with a significant nod of his head,—“Your sled, was it? Well, I shall be surprised if my shop does not turn you out a better sled than that, just by way of thanks for your kindness.”

“But then, wasn’t it good that it was only the old chair that we had to-day?” asked Little But Then, as she told the story to Aunt Barbara at home. “Oh Auntie, I had the nicest kind of a time!”

“I believe you had,” answered Aunt Barbara, smiling; “for a brave, sunny spirit, that never frets over what it has not, but always makes the best of what it has where it is, is sure to have a good time. It does not need to wait for it to come—it has a factory for making it.”

—The following is an Arabic proverb taken from the mouth of an Oriental: “Men are four. 1. He who knows not, and knows not he knows not. He is a fool; shun him. 2. He who knows not, and knows he knows not. He is simple; teach him. 3. He who knows, and knows not he knows. He is asleep; wake him. 4. He who knows, and knows he knows. He is wise; follow him.”