on the wall of her pretty little bedroom, she could fancy she saw the whole scene of the afternoon-herself and her cousin standing on the garden-steps with their dolls, the beginning of the dispute, her own hand outstretched to give that unfortunate push, and then White Rose lying in a motionless heap on the hard gravel path!

It was nearly morning when she fell asleep at last; and then she dreamed it all over again, only it was worse, for she fancied that her cousin was not only hurt, but dead-quite dead! She woke with a scream, which brought her sister Elinor to her side, a girl of fourteen, who slept in a room opening from her own.

"I dreamt that White Rose was dead!" said the child. "Oh, Nelly, Nelly, I can't be by myself till it is time to get up.”

Elinor was full of pity, and carried Red Rose to share her own bed, and coaxed her to sleep again; but when the little girl appeared at the breakfast-table it was with a very white wan face, I can assure you.

Lessons had always been given to the two cousins at Mrs. Clare's house; but now, of course, they were 'impossible, and a holiday

was proclaimed; but, dearly as Rose Dunn loved even the word "holiday," it gave her no pleasure this time, she did not even give her mother the shadow of a smile when she heard

the news.

Perhaps she was feeling that the long day would be very unhappy; that dolls, books, work, even her own bit of garden ground, wherein she grew fruit and flowers, would afford no pleasure as long as she had her miserable secret to bear alone.

As she roamed from room to room she could not put it from her mind; as she wandered listlessly round the pretty garden it was to her excited fancy much as if the wind, as it fluttered the leaves, was saying, "Who pushed White Rose?" or the birds, as they sang in the tree-tops, said, "We saw it! we saw it!"

It was fancy, as I have said, for neither wind nor birds can tell us what has happened; but there was no fancy at all about the voice of conscience, for that is far too clear and strong for there to be any mistake about it. If, however, conscience does not speak to us when we have done wrong, we need to be alarmed indeed; for that seems to tell it is

becoming lifeless-that we have killed it, starved it till it can utter no complaint, no further reproach.

You know that there is no feeling in anything from which life has gone, that you could not make a dead body or a dead bird sensible of your touch; so, if conscience dies by reason of our neglect, it does not continue able to warn, to reproach, to excite to better things.

Little Rose Dunn was playing with conscience now, and it is a dangerous play. Certainly, it was the pleading of this inward voice which made her so very unhappy, and she would have explained that she did not "like" to be unhappy; still unhappiness which leads us to repent, and ask pardon, and so win God's peace, is better far than to be unhappy for ever because of unpardoned sin, for which all sorrow is now too late!

I wonder if among my readers there are any-ah, indeed, I have known such, not only among children-who "skip" what seems serious in a little story, because they only care for such parts as amuse or make them laugh. If so, I expect all I say about this wonderful and useful voice of conscience will most certainly be "skipped;" and yet it is a

subject I want so much to persuade you to think of that I try in spite of my fears that you may not care about it. If I could, I should like to keep any of you from the wretchedness which at this time took possession of the heart of our little "Red Rose," so please accept my warning, and make these two good resolves.

I. If conscience says, "Do this, for it is right," I will obey quickly.

II. I will never keep a secret from my mother, when I am quite sure it is something she ought to know.

Not very difficult things to take for resolutions, are they? not, at least, having a hard sound as you read them on the page of a little story-book? Nevertheless, I warn you that there will surely come some moments in your life when you will feel them beyond. your power, unless you lift up your heart in prayer, and say, "Lord, help me!"

28

CHAPTER III.

"E Did Et."

anxious for good

HREE, four, five days went by, and in answer to every inquiry about the little invalid in Mrs. Clare's house, they always said, "Better!" "Going on very well!" or some other speech which is welcome. in such cases, when many friends and neighbours are

news.

But at the end of a week there was some little change in the condition of White Rose which Mr. Grant the doctor did not like, and he began to shake his head, and speak far less cheerfully about her rapid recovery.

She was quite conscious of everything now, and would smile at her mother and at the other members of the family as they took