PAULA (continued 4)

* * * * *

"Tell me, Paula," said my father one evening, "how is the new pupil coming on?"

"Which new pupil?" our cousin said as she came and stood by my father's chair, where he sat reading his paper.

"The Breton, of course. Surely you haven't more than one pupil?"

"For the present, no!" she answered, with a queer little smile on her quiet face.

"For the present, no." repeated my father; "and what may that mean?"

Paula rested her cheek against the top of my father's head.

"Dearest uncle," she said, "will you please grant me a great favor?"

"Now, what?" said my father—and the stern, serious face lighted up with a smile.

"You see, the Breton has almost learned to read, and it would be just splendid if some of his old comrades and his two sons could learn too."

"Oh, Paula, Paula!" said my father—"where is all this going to end?"

But Paula was not easily daunted, especially when the thing asked for was for the benefit of other people.

"Now, why won't you let me teach them, dear uncle?" She came and kneeled at my father's feet, and took both his hands in hers.

"But you're only a very young and very little student, Paula. You must be taught yourself before you can teach others." My father's voice was very tender, but firm as well, and it didn't look to me as if Paula would win. She said nothing in reply, but stayed kneeling there at his feet with those great appealing eyes of hers fixed on his face.

"We shall see, we shall see," said my father gently, "when you've finished your own studies. Besides I think you're reasonable enough to see that such a task along with your studies would be too big a burden for a child like you. I could not let you take this up."

"I suppose you're right, dear uncle," said Paula humbly, as she rose and rested her head against my father's shoulder, "and yet if you could only know how happy it would make the Breton and his comrades. And besides," she added, "I had fondly hoped that if I could have taught them, they would learn much about the Lord Jesus and take Him as their Saviour, as the Breton has done."

"You seem to think of nothing but how to serve your 'Lord Jesus,'" and there was a wistful sort of tone in my father's voice.

"Well, am I not His servant?"

"No!" said my father, "I'd call you a soldier of His, and one that's always under arms!"

"That's because I have such a wonderful, such a kind, and such a powerful Captain. I wish everybody might come to know Him! And to know Him is to love Him!"

There followed a moment of silence, so solemn, so sweet, that it seemed as if a Presence had suddenly entered, and I personally felt my soul in that moment suddenly lifted toward God as it had never been before. And as I looked at Paula standing so humbly there her eyes seemed to say: "Oh, my uncle, my cousin, would that you, too, might love Him and receive Him as the Saviour of your soul!"

"Listen, Paula," my father said; "will you leave the Breton and his friends and his sons in my hands for the present?"

Paula looked at him searchingly for a moment, as if trying to find out what was in his mind.

"Of course!" she finally said.

"Well, then, just rest content. I'll try to see the thing through somehow. If I'm not very much mistaken, these protegés of yours will have very little to complain of."

"Oh, uncle dear!" shouted Paula, delighted, "what are you planning to do?"

"I don't know yet exactly, but I've thought of something. No! No! Don't try to thank me for anything, for I don't know how it will come out. But," he smiled as he laid his hand on Paula's head, "you certainly have a method of asking for things that I don't seem to find any way to refuse you."

CHAPTER FIVE

THE NIGHT SCHOOL

For the first time in my life a great secret had been confided to me. Of course, I felt quite proud that they had considered me important enough to be a sharer of the secret. But my! What a struggle it was not to tell Paula!

In a few days it would be Paula's fifteenth birthday, and the whole family seemed endued with the same idea, to make it an especially happy and unforgettable occasion.

Paula must have suspected something with all the coming and going; the whispering and smothered giggles in corners, etc., but she wasn't the kind to pry into other people's affairs, and so, no matter what she may have thought, she kept her own counsel.

On the morning of the great day, which to our great satisfaction, came on a Sunday, Paula was quite a bit surprised to find that Mlle. Virtud and Gabriel had been invited over to breakfast; but aside from that occurrence there was nothing unusual as yet to indicate that we were celebrating Paula's birthday.

When the meal was finished, however, my father folded up his napkin, and with an air of mock gravity said, "Why, let me see, this is Paula's birthday; isn't it? I suppose Paula's been wondering why there were no gifts piled up on her plate. You see, Paula, we've all combined on the one gift, but it's too big to put on the dining-table. However, it's not far away. Let's all go and have a look at it together."

He led the way out of the house and across the road, and we all followed.

I presume the neighborhood received quite a shock of surprise to see such a procession of folks coming out of the big house. Many came and stood in their front door-yards to view the unusual sight, for instance, of Louis with his arm linked in that of our old servant Teresa, and Paula herself on our father's arm, and the rest of us strung out behind.

We finally stopped in front of Mlle. Virtud's newly-painted little house, with its tiny garden in front in all the splendor of its spring dress.

"Come in, Paula," said our teacher of former days. "Your present is in here in this front room."

We all followed after Paula, eager to see the result of her inspection of the "present."

Paula took one step, and then stopped on the threshold.

"What do you think of your birthday present, Paula?" said my father. "Do you think the Breton and his comrades will be content to come here to study and to leam to sing, etc., in this room?"

"Oh, uncle dear!" and that was all she could say as she embraced and kissed him with a gratitude we all knew well was too deep for mere words to express.

Suddenly Louis pulled her hair a bit, saying, "Well, how about the rest of us. Aren't you going to thank us too? There are a lot of folks here that have had a share in this business."

Paula gave him a smile in which she included all of us in her thankful joy and gratitude.

"Why!" said Paula, "this was the room everybody thought was useless, and which was in such bad condition that the landlord didn't think it worthwhile to fix up!"

"Yes," said my father; "it's the very room. I confess one would hardly recognize it, but when Monsieur Bouché understood what it was to be used for, he went to unusual trouble to fix it properly. You'll have to thank him especially, Paula. He has a reputation of being not always so amiable."

"I will take him a lovely bunch of flowers," said Paula.

"Humph!" said Louis, "I'm sure I don't know what he'd do with them. He doesn't often get flowers from his tenants."

Paula walked about the room as in a dream, examining everything.

The table in the center had been loaned by Dr. Lebon. The lovely red curtains were a present from Mlle. Virtud. Rosa and Louis had given the two long benches on each side of the table. My father had given the school-books, and I had bought pencils and copy-books from my monthly allowance. It was all very simple and severe, but to Paula's eyes these gifts brought together in the little whitewashed room seemed to her quite wonderful.

"Look up there," said Louis, "you haven't seen that yet," and Paula saw hanging from the ceiling a fine new lamp to which a white paper seemed to be tied. Louis reached up and took down the paper for her, and she read as follows: "In great gratitude from the Breton."

"Now, look here," said Louis, "you don't need to weep over it! The Breton is only grateful for all you've done for him. Thanks to you, he's been able to save up a little money lately instead of spending it all on drink.

"Now, look here," he continued, "you don't need to weep to an elaborately embroidered motto on the wall containing the Lord's words to the weary ones of earth. 'Come unto Me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.'"

"Oh, it's all too much!" said Paula completely overcome. "How can I thank you all for what you've done?"

"Your gratitude and happiness is sufficient reward for us," said my father. "I don't know what put the idea in our heads. I suppose you will say it was God, and perhaps you are right. All I know is that I spoke to Mlle. Virtud of your desire to have a night-school for the Breton and his friends, and then spoke to others about it and—well, now you've seen the result. You owe most of your thanks to Mlle. Virtud who brought the thing about and gave us the use of the room."

"Which room," said Mlle. Virtud, with a dry little smile, "had no value whatsoever, you'll remember."

"And another thing," said my father, "she is the one who has taken over the responsibility of the night-school. Otherwise I could not have permitted you to take up such a task. Then Rosa is going to help when she can, and Lisita has an idea she can do something also."

"And I," said Louis, "where do I come into the picture?"

With a grin my father turned to his son, "That's where you're only in the background for once."

It was decided, in accord with Mlle. Virtud, to have classes twice a week. Thursdays would be for reading, writing and arithmetic, and Sundays would be a time for learning songs and for putting their studies into practice by reading in the Bible, and, for what several had been asking, namely, to learn how to pray.

If the Breton was a model scholar, this could not be said of his two younger sons. These boys appeared to be much below the average in natural intelligence, besides the fact that their ordinary educational opportunities had, as in the case of Joseph, their older brother, been decidedly neglected. Their father had compelled them to attend the "night-school," but apparently they didn't seem to grasp what it was all about. Without any apparent cause they both would suddenly duck down below the table to hide their merriment. Whatever story, no matter how interesting, was read aloud, they didn't appear to comprehend a word of it, and if a chapter from the Bible was read they either showed elaborate signs of boredom or else they would doze in their seats. Paula would gaze at them sadly—her young heart was grieved at such colossal indifference.

The three comrades of the Breton, however, were decidedly different, taking up their studies with great eagerness and listening well to everything that was read aloud.

"It's a whole lot better here than spending our money at the liquor shop," they would say with a smile of satisfaction.

"I'll say so," the Breton would chime in. "I'll tell you what, comrades, if I'd known only before all that one gains in Christ's service, I would have started long ago on this new life with Him."

The happiest and most beloved of all in the school was Gabriel. He was so happy that he was able to come in and study with the others; and when it came to singing, his marvelously fresh and clear tones outclassed them all—that is, all but one.

I seem to hear yet those lovely hymns that were sung with such sincerity and heartiness—but the voice that rang clear and true above all others is now mingling its notes with the choirs of heaven.

CHAPTER SIX

THE HOUSE OF GOD

It was vacation time—in August. Teresa said she had never seen a dryer or a hotter summer in her whole existence. Gabriel and his sister had gone to visit their family in the country and we had our usual "red letter" time at Grandmother Dumas' house. We had returned from our visit greatly refreshed—all except Paula, who seemed to have lost somewhat of that perpetual happiness which, when she appeared on the scene had always been such a tonic to us all. She had tried her best not to show it, but she gave us all the impression that she tired very quickly.

"I think the reason you tire so soon is because you're growing so quickly," said Teresa. Paula laughed and said that that wasn't her fault.

One morning my father seemed to be looking at her more intently than usual. He finally said, "You're not feeling well; are you, Paula?"

"I'm all right, dear uncle," she said. "Sometimes I get a bit tired. I think it must be the heat."

"But, my dear child, you hardly eat anything at all, and you've lost those roses in your cheeks."

He still continued looking at her—then suddenly he said, "I'll tell you one thing that I think would please you very much. Do you know what that would be?"

"What, sir?" and Paula seemed to regain all her usual animation.

"I think," said my father slowly in a low voice as if talking to himself, "I think you"—and he paused a moment—"What would you say if you were to go to church with Celestina on Sundays?"

"Oh, dear uncle, could I really go?" Paula jumped to her feet excitedly.

"Yes, I think I'll let you go—and"—again he hesitated a bit—"if Teresa, Rosa and Lisita wish to, they may go along too."

"And you, dear uncle, will you not come with us?" questioned Paula, as she looked into the sad, stern face that had softened considerably of late.

"We shall see, we shall see. But you'd better not count on me. My, oh, me! Just see! Those roses have all come back again!"

"Well, but you don't know how happy you've made me!" said Paula as she fairly danced out of the house with me to tell the news to Celestina.

"Well," said Celestina, "all I can say is that the Lord heard my prayers and yours, dear Paula. It's the great weapon of the weak and needy, and in fact can be the power to serve all and anyone who will surrender themselves and all they are into the hands of the Saviour."

We had seated ourselves near the door of her little cottage. Something in the deep tones of the old lady's voice seemed to search my very heart. We always enjoyed listening to this old saint who, like Enoch and Noah, walked with God. We seemed to be drawn closer to God in her humble little cottage than in any other place.

"You see," she continued, "I'm old and quite feeble, and besides I'm poor, and can't do very much for other folks; but there's one thing I can do, and that is, pray. And I do pray for everybody—and especially for you and your family, my dear young friends. God doesn't let me see many results of my prayers, but that doesn't discourage me. I just keep everlastingly at it, and I can leave the results to Him. Has He not said, through the mouth of His Apostle John, 'This is the confidence that we have in Him, that if we ask anything according to His will, He heareth us, and if we know that He hear us, whatsoever we ask, we know that we have the petitions that we desired of Him.'

"I remember once hearing a certain hymn about prayer. I never could remember all the verses, but most of it has remained deeply engraved in my memory although I only heard it once. It was sung by a young missionary from Africa who happened to be passing through Paris. It was at a meeting which I attended as a young girl many years ago."

"Please sing it to us, dear Celestina," said Paula, "even though you may not remember it all."

"Well, my dear young friends," said Celestina, "that old hymn has been my comfort and the inspiration of my prayers through all the years since I heard it sung so long ago in Paris where I lived when I was young. Here it is"; and as those quavering notes sounded we seemed lifted toward that heavenly Throne of which she sang.

On heavenly heights an Angel stands. He takes our prayer in heavenly hands, And with celestial incense rare, He mingles every heart-felt prayer Of those who trust His precious blood To reconcile their souls to God.

"Then from that glorious, heavenly place Descend the lightnings of His grace; To heal, to strengthen, and provide, For those who trust in Him Who died. 'Who died,' I say?—Yea, He Who rose Triumphant, Conqueror of His foes!

"Who is this priestly Angel bright, Who thus dispels our darkest night? 'Tis He who sets the captive free, Jesus Who died on Calvary's tree; Who is, Who was, and is to come— The glory of His Father's Home!

"Well," said Paula softly as the last note died away, "I've prayed much for my dear uncle that he might be saved."

"And God will hear and answer you, my dear, according to the scripture I've just quoted. Let me tell you something. Your uncle came here to see me a few days ago, and I believe he is not far from the Kingdom of God!"

"Oh," cried Paula, "I would give everything to see him truly saved!"

* * * * *

Never had I seen Paula so happy as when we entered the little old evangelical church in the Rue San Eloi.

We had had the natural timidity of new-comers, and had feared more than anything else that battery of eyes which would surely be turned on us at our entrance. It was therefore a great relief to find that the meeting had already begun, and an empty pew well toward the back that held us all, seemed to beckon to us with a sort of mute welcome.

Hardly were we seated when I noticed Paula (who had of course been accustomed to church-going at her old home in the valley) had kneeled, and with her eyes closed seemed to be offering a prayer. This was soon ended and she resumed her seat. It was all so new to me that I could not at first take in much of the details of the service.

The preacher had a fine noble face which seemed to light up especially as the hymns were heartily sung by the whole congregation.

Perhaps it was my imagination, but it seemed to me that a quiet smile of approval passed over his face as his eyes rested on Paula who so fervently joined in the songs—all of which seemed quite familiar to her.

It was an affecting thing, that vision of my girl companion. In her white dress with its blue sash at the waist, and with her wide white straw hat, she made a lovely picture. In that frank open countenance I think I read her thoughts. Here in God's house she had entered once more the Promised Land from which she had been exiled for four long years!

Suddenly the sun came from behind a cloud, especially designed, I thought, to send a ray of rose-colored light through one of the stained-glass windows of the church over that beautiful face at my side which now showed only rapt attention to the simple gospel message saturated with God's Word that flowed like a mighty river from the preacher's lips.

As we came through the door on our way out, I caught a glimpse of my father's tall form just disappearing around a bend in the Rue San Eloi. I think he must have stolen up to the door and had been listening outside!

CHAPTER SEVEN

IN HIS PRESENCE

At times I have wished to efface from my mind the memory of those last moments that Paula was with us. Yet as I think of the dwelling to which she has gone, and also the manner in which she went—in the path of duty—to the House of Glory, as a good soldier of the Cross, I bless God and kneel in gratitude to Him for having loaned her to us for those four precious years when He used her to bring us all to the bleeding side of the Saviour, and thus make us new creatures in Christ Jesus.

* * * * *

It was on the Wednesday after that Sunday when we had first attended church. It had been a day of terrible heat. The oppressive atmosphere seemed to promise an electric storm. Louis who had forgotten a study book when he went to school on Monday, had returned to get it. Paula had tried to study, but I could see she was having great difficulty.

Suddenly Teresa appeared and called Paula to take a letter which my father wished to send to a man who lived in the Rue Fourmi.

"Go quickly, Paula, there's a storm brewing, but I think you can easily get back before it breaks. The Rue Fourmi is not far away."

Paula had no time to answer before Teresa disappeared again to the other end of the house.

Paula turned to Louis, who was about to start out for his uncle's house, where he stayed during the week in order to be near his school.

"Louis dear," she said, "won't you please take this letter on your way back to your uncle's house?"

"No," said Louis sharply; "I never go that way."

"No, I know that; but it would only be a few steps out of your way to leave it there, and—well—you see—I have quite a headache."

"Teresa told you to take the letter, not me. A fig for your headache! It's only that you're too lazy to stir!" said Louis.

"Louis!" I shouted, "You ought to be ashamed of yourself! You know well enough Paula's always willing to do anything for anybody! I'd go myself, but I simply can't leave what I'm doing now. If Teresa had remembered, she would have given you the letter and you know it! If you don't take it, I'll tell father!"

"Do as you please," said Louis coolly. "I'll not be bothered with it!"

I was furious and couldn't keep back the angry tears that now began to roll down my cheeks.

"Never mind, Lisita," said Paula, as she ran for her hat. Then as she went through the door she turned for a last look at Louis, "Won't you please take it, Louis?" she said.

"No!" said Louis—"and that's that!" and he turned his back to Paula.

"Good-bye, Louis dear!" she finally said without the least show of anger, as she left the house. "We'll be seeing you again on Saturday."

She ran down the street quickly in order to return before the gathering storm broke.

Louis followed shortly to return to his uncle's, whistling cheerfully as he went; but his cheerfulness seemed to me to be a little too exaggerated to be real.

After I'd finished my task I sought out Teresa at the other end of the great house.

"Paula has a bad headache," I said.

"Why didn't she tell me that?" said Teresa. "I'd have sent Louis, but I didn't think of it at the time"

I opened my mouth to say something, and then I shut it again. I had begun slowly to learn from Paula's example not to be a "tattle-tale."

Meanwhile the sky grew darker. Suddenly Teresa said,

"I don't know what's keeping Paula, Here, Lisita! Take this umbrella and go and meet her. I'm afraid she'll be caught in the rain before she gets back."

I soon found her as she turned in at the bottom of the Rue Darnetal. "We must hurry," she said as the thunder began to mutter in the distance. Hardly had she spoken when a flash of lightning almost blinded us. This was followed almost immediately by a great crash of thunder that seemed to shake the very ground under our feet. Then came a sound of confused shouts as if something had happened at the other end of a cross street that we were passing. Could it be a house had been struck by the lightning? No, the shouts increased and changed to cries of terror. Soon we guessed the cause, as we heard a rushing sound of galloping horses, which, frightened by the flash and the clap of thunder, came in sight around a bend in the street enveloped in a cloud of dust, dragging a heavy wagon behind them. Instinctively Paula retreated to a protecting doorway and I huddled in terror close beside her.

"Lisita!" she called suddenly. "Look! look!" What I saw was something that seemed to freeze my blood! Directly in the pathway of the onrushing horses, totally unconscious of his danger, was a little boy of about three years old toddling along in the middle of the road. One instant more and it would have been all over! Suddenly Paula left our shelter like a shot from a gun. Then I heard a sharp cry that rent the air like a knife, and then—I can remember little more—just a confusion of people running hither and thither, and then for me all was darkness, but in that darkness I seemed to hear still that piercing cry of anguish.

* * * * *

When I came back to consciousness I found myself on the sofa in our dining-room, with Catalina bathing my face and hands with cold water.

"Where's Paula?" I cried, for I remembered at once that terrible scene in the Rue Darnetal.

"Paula is in her room," said Catalina, turning her head to hide the tears that would come in spite of all her efforts.

I tried to rise and go to our room.

"Stay where you are, Lisita!" said Catalina. "You may go a bit later when you're feeling stronger."

But now a terrible suspicion crossed my mind. "Catalina," I cried, almost beside myself with fear, "tell me the truth! Is Paula dead?"

"No, Lisita; Paula's not dead," as she tried in vain to detain me; "She is still breathing—and"—but I heard nothing more. My legs trembled strangely as I stumbled toward our bedroom. Once there, again that terrible darkness started to come over me, but it was only a momentary weakness. With an effort I steadied myself as I came near the bed where my dearest one lay so still—that lovely face so white, the lips slightly parted with just a faint stirring of the breath.

The room was full of people, some weeping silently, some trying to choke back their sobs. Others, like my father and Dr. Lebon, with an agony showing on their faces much more terrible than any tears.

All this I saw as in a horrible dream from which I hoped to awake at any moment. But, no!—I soon realized it was all too true. This was the first real grief of my life, and I had to sustain it alone for I had not yet yielded to Him who sends comfort to His children in their time of anguish. He did take pity on me, however. In the next room I hid my grief in Teresa's arms—Teresa, who more than anyone else, knew the love that had united me to Paula.

"Oh, Teresa," I cried, when I found myself alone with her, "she must not die! She must not! I simply cannot live without her, you know that! Oh, pray for me, dear Teresa. God will hear your prayer. He probably wouldn't hear mine. Tell Him! Oh, please tell Him, Paula must not die!"

"No, Lisita," Teresa said as she dried my tears; "We must leave Paula in God's hands. He loves her more than you and I could ever do. If you could see that poor broken body as I've seen it you would not ask that she should live! Yes, indeed, she was happy with us. She was to us all like an angelic messenger sent from God to draw us to Him and to show us the way to heaven. And now He's called her to Himself almost without suffering, for she appears to have become insensible from the instant that the horses struck her down. Listen to me, Lisita! Soon Paula will be in heaven at her Saviour's side—her Saviour whom she loved so well; and in her dear father's company of whom she spoke so often.

"We must think of her happiness, dear Lisita, not our own, from this day forward. Paula, you remember, never thought of herself. Her thought was always for others, and it was for another that she died. She gave her life to save that little boy. So she followed in the footsteps of her Saviour, as a good soldier of the Lord Jesus who died to save all who repent and believe on His blessed name."

The voice of our old servant, so tender, so motherly, seemed to heal my sorrow. When I became calmer she told me some of the details of the tragedy. Paula had, dashed in front of the horses just in time to throw the child out of danger but had been unable to escape herself. That much I understood; but from that day to this, I have never been able to bring myself to ask for any more details. It seems I had fainted, and they carried us both home.

Poor Teresa, I knew how ardently she, too, loved our Paula, but courageous and unselfish her only thought, as ever, was for us. In consoling me she forgot her own sorrow. As I looked at that strong calm face lighted up as from an inner brilliance, it seemed to take on a striking likeness to the dear one whose life was ebbing away in the next room. There came to my mind a verse from a Bible story that Paula had told us once. It was this:

"The spirit of Elijah hath fallen on Elisha."

* * * * *

A stream of neighbors came in from everywhere. It was in those last moments as these humble friends passed before that unconscious form that we came to comprehend how many lives had been touched by the simple country girl from the Waldensian mountains. Some remembered her just from the smile with which she always greeted young and old as she passed up and down the long street at our end of the town. Others spoke of the loving adoration of the children whom she had protected and defended. Still others mentioned the kindness she had shown them, and poured out many stories of Paula's universal love for all—of her visits to the poor and sick, and of how she had pointed them to the Saviour who had died to take away their sin; bringing joy and hope and liberty into many a home where only discord and misery had reigned before.

So the tears of many of our humble, friendless neighbors mingled with our own as we waited for the end.

But there was one on whom the blow fell more terribly than on any one of the rest of us, for it was a bitter mixture of remorse and shame that Louis had to bear. When he arrived at the house after being summoned from our uncle's place, and came to a full realization of what had happened, for an instant he seemed turned to stone. Then a sharp cry came from him. In that short moment he seemed to change from a careless, selfish boy to a man—a man awakened at last to his terrible need of a change and with a transforming purpose in his life from that day forward.

Louis demanded that I tell everybody present what had happened that afternoon. When I refused, he poured out the whole sorry, sordid story of his selfishness without one word of excuse, saying as he finished, "So you see, it was I who killed her, for there was no need of her stirring from the house." Then he turned to my father imploring him to punish him severely. He said he could ask no pardon, for he had done what he considered unpardonable. For answer my father took him in his arms; and I knew that at that moment my father and Louis came to understand each other better than they had ever done in their lives before.

"No, my poor boy," my father said; "you need no further punishment. Now go to your heavenly Father and ask Him to make you His child." And I know that Louis did so.

* * * * *

In silence we waited. Paula was the bond of love that had united us all; not only to one another but now also to God. How wonderful, how beautiful, had been that short life, and how she had poured out her love upon us. Again the scene came back to me of that moonlight night at this same bedside, when at prayer she had seemed more like an angel talking with the One who had sent her to us, than merely the simple, honest-hearted country girl that she really was.

Suddenly the door opened slowly and a woman poorly dressed entered, leading a little boy of about three years old. When he saw us he stopped and turned to hide behind the folds of his mother's dress.

"Come in, come in," said Teresa kindly, as she led them both to the side of my dear one lying there so white and still.

"Oh, Carlito," exclaimed the poor woman turning to her little son as she dropped upon her knees beside the bed. "How I wish you could understand! This is that lovely one who saved your life! She took your place there under the horses' hoofs!" Then taking Paula's two hands in her own she said, "Oh, Mademoiselle, oh, that you might hear me! Would that I might do something in return for what you have done for my boy! Oh, is there nothing I can do?"

"Yes, my dear woman," said our old servant—and her eyes were streaming—"I'll tell you what you can do. Nothing would have pleased Paula better than to have known that you had taken the Lord Jesus as your Saviour. Also you may take this dear child and dedicate and train him for God's service in the days to come."

"That," said the poor woman, "I solemnly promise to do if you will show me how."

Thus it was that our Teresa had the joy of pointing her first soul to the Saviour.

Tenderly my father cut off two locks of that beautiful hair of our dear one, and as the woman went out he said. "Take this one and keep it always in remembrance of the rescuer of your little boy; and this other one," and he held out the second to her also, "keep it for him until he's old enough to understand."

Taking them from my father's hand she silently kissed them and placed them in the bosom of her dress as she and her little one glided through the outer door.

Louis had gone out on a special errand, and he soon returned, bringing with him from the factory the object of his search. The poor Breton, followed by his sons and all the other "scholars" of the night-school, started to enter the room and then stopped abashed at the threshold. At the invitation of my father however, one by one they all came to the bedside, pale and shaken with emotion.

"I'm glad you were able to get here before the end came," said my father. "Oh, if you could only know how she loved you all!"

The Breton suddenly broke down and cried like a child. When he could control himself he said, "It was but this very morning that I passed her on the street. She seemed just like a happy bird as she waved me 'good day,'—and now—now—to find her dying here!"

"May the dear Lord's will be done!" said Teresa.

The poor Breton had buried his face in his hands, but suddenly looking up, he said humbly,

"You're quite right, Mademoiselle Teresa—but, you see, Mademoiselle Paula was more to me than it seems she could mean to any one of you. I was a drunkard and a robber—a monster of iniquity! I was despised and hated and feared by everybody, and for good reason. But there in Celestina's kitchen that day, Mademoiselle was not afraid to take these rough hands—these hands that had been so often stained with crime and violence in her own pure white ones to tell me she would help me! She it was who taught me to pray. She it was who had prayed for me while I was in prison. I have seen men ground to pieces in the gears of a machine in the factory. I've looked on death in many terrible forms without shedding a tear—but this one!—oh, Mademoiselle Paula! Would that I could have died in your place!" And again quivering with emotion, the Breton turned and leaned against the wall to hide his tears.

Suddenly a convulsion shook the form of my dear one and Dr. Lebon stepped forward and took her hand. "The end is coming," he said.

My father dropped on his knees beside the bed. "Oh, Lord," he said, "I, too, would be Thine own. Is it too late for me?"

At that moment a hand was laid on his shoulder. It was the same hand that years ago had been laid on his wife's eyes to close them for the last time. That same hand had tended and cared faithfully for his children ever since.

"Monsieur! My good Master!" said Teresa, in a tone of tender love and respect such as I had never heard her use before, "It is not too late! He has said, 'Him that cometh unto Me, I will in no wise cast out.'"

My father looked up. "Well, then, Teresa—I come to Him."

The dear old woman dropped on her knees and with folded hands simply said, "Thanks, dear Lord, for Thou hast answered my prayer, and Paula's too!"

* * * * *

The storm of wind and rain had passed. In the little gardens of the "Red Cottages" across the street, the flowers once again began to raise their heads and the birds began to sing as the sun came out once more.

Suddenly there came a soft sigh from the still form on the bed. Dr. Lebon nodded as he turned away. His task was ended. The Good Shepherd had taken His tired lamb in His arms.

* * * * *

Then the sound of a deep voice was heard, saying,

"Except a corn of wheat fall into the ground and die it abideth alone, but if it die, it bringeth forth much fruit."