"My pride spoke, Sarah. We were so respected, at Welton, though we were really poor people," replied Joyce, softly. "Aye, darling. As Mrs. Evans will not be if she live to a hundred. I can just think I see you, as you went through the snow to church only last Christmas morning. You were looking as glad and happy as possible, for you knew that many a home would be bright that day, and many a table spread with plenty through what you had done." "I had given very little, Sarah. I had not much to give." "Not in money, dearie. But gold and silver are not everything. You had put in your little in that way, and a great deal that was more precious still—time and work. You had walked many a mile and pleaded for the poor with the rich, and induced them to give what you could not. And who could withstand you? Not those you had spent your life amongst." "Sarah, they were all as willing to give as possible." "Aye. Their giving was pretty easy work in most cases; they went without nothing, and would never miss their guineas, because they cost them no self-denial. There are lots of people who put their hands into their pockets and think they do a great deal when they give a gold piece out of a full purse; but if they had to go without something in order to spare the guinea, it would not be given. Catch your aunt or the young ladies going with a pair of gloves the less, to save a poor creature from starvation. Well, the mistress did me a kindness in letting me have my holidays at Welton last Christmas, but then it was because there was no work for me at The Chase, seeing they were wintering abroad." "She gave you a whole month, Sarah, and it was delightful to have you at our house." "Yes, and it saved the mistress four weeks' board wages she must have paid me if I had been at The Chase. I can see round a corner, dearie, though you cannot always. Never mind, it was a happy, blessed Christmas, and worth more than a year's wages to be with my own precious nursling." The tears were streaming down Joyce's cheeks as she thought of that last Christmas in the one true home of her life. "I little thought—" she said; then stopped, unable to continue. "No more did any of us. Well, your father acted for the best, and you have happy years to look back on—years when you made poor homes brighter, and cheered downcast souls with words of love and hope. Now you must think of this. You are not forgotten at Welton. Every one loves you there; but they don't know how you are fixed. Depend on it they say, 'What a good thing it was that Miss Joyce had a grand rich uncle to take care of her when her father died!' They pray for you, and look to see you again some day. Better still, God never forgets. Think of this, my darling, you who cared for God's poor to the very outside of your power. He will care for you and repay you. As surely as the harvest follows seed-time, so surely will you, in His good time, receive full measure back for what you have meted out to others."