five small children. Then it was that Sarah Ann left her own little home to come to the rescue. It was not likely that she would lack for something to do in the narrow, pinched household.

As Sarah Ann plunged the clothes-stick into the bubbling boiler, her spirit of rebellion deepened. Just then there came a tap at the door. A young girl stood there, a young girl in a shady hat and a rose-colored dress. Her cheeks matched her gown.

It was pretty Charlotte Dent, one of the members of Sarah Ann's church.

"Good morning, Sarah Ann!" she said, in her cheerful voi "I knocked at the front door, but as nobody came, I thought I'd better come round here."

"Jane Harriet's asleep," replied Sarah Ann, briefly. "She had a bad night, and the children are playing next door. Well," she added, a little brusquely, "what is it? Something about the church, I know. I can't ask you to come in, you'd smother."

What had

Charlotte's face took on a warmer hue. She felt the resentment of Sarah Ann's manner, and hesitated a little. altered the usual unassuming humility of Sarah Ann?

"We're going to have an ice-cream social, Sarah Ann," she began, shyly. "It's to be at the town hall Friday night, and we want to know if you'll come over and wash dishes for us."

Sarah Ann took up her gingham apron and slowly dried her knotted hands. Then she turned, and with something tragic in her gaze, looked into the pretty face, noting its freshness and beauty. She saw the whiteness of the slender hands and the gracefulness of the girlish figure. "And I-I might have looked like that once," she thought, with a passion of longing, "if everything hadn't been so hard!"

After a moment's silence, she spoke.
"No. I won't."

in a harsh tone.

"Help you?" she said,

"You won't?" cried Charlotte, in surprise. "Why, Sarah Ann, you always have""

Sarah Ann stood still, tall and grim; her usually meek, brown eyes were flashing.

"Yes," she retorted, "I always have! For twenty-seven years I've been a member of the church. I don't believe in all that time I've ever missed washing dishes once at anything that's come up. I've worked faithful at every supper, every social, every bazaar we've ever had. Look at my hands! Do they look as if I'd ever shirked my duty? Oh, yes, when there's work to be done you always come for Sarah Ann! She's used to it; you think she don't mind it. Why shouldn't I have a good time, like the rest of you?" she went on bitterly. "Why should I be always drudging and washing dishes? It is because I'm old and poor and ugly? There's Mrs. Judge Macon. Ask her to wash your dishes, and see what she'll say!"

"When the ladies gave that dinner and supper election day," she went on, more quietly, "I stayed all day. The rest of you left, and I washed dishes alone until twelve o'clock that night. I could hardly drag myself home, and the next day Jane Harriet had a bad spell that lasted a week. Now let somebody else wash your dishes. I'm tired."

1

The face in the doorway flushed and quivered under Saran Ann's words. Then the girl came in suddenly and put her arms about Sarah Ann's shoulders. At the gentle pressure the poor, overtasked woman broke into sobs, heavy, tearless sobs that shook her thin figure.

"There, there, Sarah Ann," whispered Charlotte, soothingly, "don't cry! I ought not to have asked you, and, Sarah Ann, it isn't as if we hadn't appreciated what you've done; we just didn't think -that's all."

A second later she was gone, with a new pity and thoughtfulness upon her face-a thoughtfulness brought there by the picture of a gaunt, tired woman with toil-worn, knotted hands.

On the night of the social the moon shone clear and bright. It had been a hot day, and poor Jane Harriet had been unusually trying. But it was over now. The children were asleep, Jane Harriet was safely settled for the night, and Sarah Ann could take a minute's breathing-time.

As she sat in the doorway in the soft stillness of the moonlight, she was thinking of the social and of Charlotte Dent. "I ought to have gone," she whispered slowly. "They can't get any one to wash dishes but me.

things I did, either."

I needn't have told Charlotte the

She folded her hands in her lap and sighed heavily. As she sat there, the gate clicked. Some one was coming up the walk; some one in a white dress. It was Charlotte.

"Is That's good.

"Get you bonnet, Sarah Ann," she said in a low voice. your sister in bed, and are the children asleep? Come, I want you to go to the social. Not to help," she added hastily, "but to enjoy yourself like other people."

"We never thought about it, Sarah Ann," she went on, shyly. "We have imposed on you, and you've had so much to do at home! Come, get your bonnet."

Sarah Ann rose stiffly. It had been a hard day.

"Are you sure you want me?" she said, wistfully.
"Quite sure," said the girl.

A few minutes later they went up the quiet street together. The hall was lighted, the windows were open, and as they passed up the steps there was a hum of voices.

"There's a lot of people here," said Charlotte, happily, as they went in.

"We think we're going to make a good deal this time.

We want to get that Sunday-school piano paid for if we can. They're pressing us for another payment. Did I tell you?"

"No," murmured Sarah Ann, "you didn't."

She would have washed dishes willingly if she had known that, she thought.

It was a pretty sight that her eyes rested on. All about were scattered small white-covered tables, at which people were eating ice-cream and cake. Sarah Ann thought she had never seen so many pretty dresses in all her life.

Charlotte led her to a seat.

I'll wait on you."

"Sit here," she whispered, "and

She pushed her gently into a chair and departed hastily. Sarah Ann sat stiffly upright. Now that she had her wish, she felt ill at ease. She had never been waited upon before, and she thought that it wasn't such a blessing, after all, to sit with folded hands.

Charlotte came back in a few minutes, carrying on a tray a generous pyramid of ice-cream and a liberal supply of cake.. "I brought you the best cake we had, Sarah Ann," she whi3pered, as she deposited her burden. "Don't forget to trv this banana cake. Mrs. Bright made it, and you know how good her Good-by. I'll be back again if I can, but we're

cake always is, very busy."

Left alone, Sarah Ann slowly ate her ice-cream. She tasted her cake, but left most of it. She felt strange and out of place, for in all her recollections this was the first time any one had ever waited upon her; and-she did not like it.

As she sat at the white-covered table among the well-dressed, lighthearted people, the conviction came home to her that it was too late to change matters, after all. With an odd restlessness,

In the

she wanted to be up and doing as she had always done. camp of the Israelites there had been hewers of wood and drawers of water, and perhaps they were just as necessary to the well-being of the camp as the priests and the psalmsingers, and perhaps they received as great a reward.

And now she knew that she must bury her longings and her dreams, and be content with the humble things. He who planned all lives knew best.

Rising, she made her way steadily through the crowds to the rear room. Nobody was there but Charlotte Dent, and she was standing over a huge pan filled to the brim with dishes. Her delicate face was flushed, and there was a weary look in the sweet

eyes.

She glanced up as Sarah Ann entered. "It's hard work, Sarah Ann," she said, smiling faintly. "I didn't know how hard until I tried it. I've been thinking about you all the time since I've been standing here."

Sarah Ann went over to Charlotte and took her hands reso

lutely from the dish-pan. "Give me your apron, child," she said. "There, you go and enjoy yourself. You're not fit for this work."

Tying the gingham apron about her own waist, she plunged her calloused hands into the water. The dishes came out with

astonishing rapidity, clean and bright.

There was a relieved yet a reluctant look on Charlotte's face. "I don't like to leave you, Sarah Ann," she said, slowly. "It doesn't seem right."

"Yes, it does, too!" cried Sarah Ann.

"You go!"

She drew the slender figure nearer her. "I'm sorry I said what I did," she whispered. "It-that feeling is all over now. I'll help you always after this."

Sarah Ann watched Charlotte as she made her way out among the people--a small, slight figure, with a delicate face, not fitted for the rougher work of life.

"Bless her!" murmured Sarah Ann; and then she turned to her work.

Her rebelliousness was gone, and in its place was a new peace. "O Lord," she whispered, through her tears, "I ain't good for much: I can't preach or pray or sing or talk. I'm only a poor, plain old woman who can wash dishes and can't do anything else. Just a hewer of wood and a' drawer of water, but maybe if I can't do the great things, You can let the little ones resound to Your honor and glory. Forgive me my stubbornness and conceit. Teach me to do the humblest tasks with a willing heart. Help me to be a 'workman that needeth not to be ashamed.'

of

"Are the ice-cream dishes ready, Sarah Ann?" called a chorus gay voices. And three or four girls came fluttering in. "What should we do without you? Nobody can wash dishes as you can. There's a whole crowd of people come up from Harmony, and they want ice-cream right away. Come, girls, we must step lively!"

Sarah Ann handed the bright, clean dishes rapidly to the waiting girls. Her face shone with a new light.

The mutiny was over, and Sarah Ann had slipped into her niche again, "a workman that needeth not to be ashamed.-Susan Hubbard Martin, in Youth's Companion.

Teacher's Reading:

Life of Christ, Farrar.
Picture: "Blessing Little Children."

JESUS BLESSING THE CHILDREN.

Matt. 19: 13-15; Mark 10: 13-16; Luke 18: 15-17.

Mothers bring children—their request-Disciples rebuke the

mothers-Why? "Suffer little children to come unto Me, and forbid them not; for of such is the kingdom of heaven."

BLESSED ARE THE MERCIFUL.

Policeman Garvey was pacing slowly along his beat one summer afternoon, when he noticed a dog lying on the pavement close to the curbstone, and, pausing to look at it, discovered that one of its legs was limp and broken. The poor creature gazed up at him so imploringly that he could not find heart to follow his first impulse and end its sufferings with a blow of his club. The street being a quiet one, he resolved to wait until some one might come to claim it. When he returned, however, it was still in the same place, and three boys were bending over it. Two of them were evidently newsboys, with their bundles of papers under their arms, and the third held fast to the handle of a large empty basket.

"Poor doggie!" said one of the newsboys, patting the black, silken head; but he stopped only a moment, and then, with his comrade, ran noisily down the street, crying, "Here's your mornin' papers? 'Post' and 'Tribune.' Latest news from Washington."

The boy with the basket still lingered, and Policeman Garvey paused to see what he would do.

"Poor little fellow!" said he, stroking the dog's soft hair. "How I wish-" and turning at the sound of a step behind him, he looked into the policeman's kind eyes.

"Oh, sir," said the boy, touching his hat, "what will become of him?"

"I suppose," was the answer, "that if there is nobody to take him, I shall have to put him out of the way."

"Oh! that would be dreadful. See how his eyes beg!

would take him home myself."

"Where d'ye live, my lad?"

The boy named the street and number.

"So far as that? "Twould be a tough lift for ye."

I

"Oh! but I don't mind that. If it wasn't for the basket. But-" his face lighting-"maybe I could lay him in the basket and carry him that way."

you.”

"I believe you could," said the policeman.

"Let me help

The dog whined a little with the pain of being moved, but he was very decile and gentle, seeming to comprehend that they were trying to help him. When he had been with some difficulty settled in his narrow quarters, the boy took firm hold of the stout baskethandle, and, bidding the policeman good-dav, walked steadily and carefully away. At first he went on quite easily, but long before he had passed over the mile and a half pavement which stretched before him, his arms had grown very tired, and he was glad enough