"Not sadly," replied Emma; "I do not think sadly, mother, for all the sadness is gone; and if I have not become healthy, I certainly have become happy, very happy, since we came to Appledale. It is true that I see a great deal to be done now, and wish sometimes that those who have the prospect of years before them would undertake this work." "I am glad that you mentioned this," said Mrs. Lindsay; "you have imbibed some of Dora's strange notions, my dear, about living for others. You may be assured, Emma, that I have not sacrificed so much for any object save that of your health. I did not leave the society of the refined and intelligent for the sake of benefiting the rude and ignorant; and I would have you remember what _was_ my object. You have nothing to do with this community only with a view to your health. If such society amuses you, mingle with it freely, but waste no thoughts upon the people here. They have always taken care of themselves, and can do this still without any help from little Emma Lindsay." This the mother said playfully, as she kissed her cheek, and added: "I did not give you a fashionable education, my dear; but it was not because I intended you for a missionary." "My heavenly Father may have intended this," replied Emma; "and you would not oppose Him, mother, for he has purchased me with a great price. We may be unwilling to make the smallest sacrifice for our fellow-creatures, yet God gave his only Son a sacrifice for us." "How that child talks," said Mrs. Lindsay, bursting into tears as Emma left the room. "And yet," replied Martha, "if we cannot save her, mother, you would rather that she should be as she is." The mother made no reply, for she knew not what to say. Emma's first summer and winter at Appledale had passed away. It was a beautiful morning in May; Martha Lindsay was sitting beside a low couch where her young sister was sleeping so sweetly, so gently, that she had more than once placed her cheek close to those parted lips fearing that the breath was gone. Dora was in her little room adjoining Emma's, and with hands uplifted in prayer, was asking this one thing of the Lord, that as in life so in death, Emma might glorify him. Mrs. Lindsay was pacing the floor in her own chamber, now weeping as if her heart would break, and now striving in this hour of deep distress, to do as Emma had long entreated her to do, namely, to come weary and heavy laden to Him who in no wise will cast us out. Mr. Graffam was at work in the garden; but his eye, now clear and intelligent, often rested on the chamber windows where the curtains were folded so close and solemnly. Susan Sliver had watched with Emma many a night, and now she had retired for a few moments while Emma slept. Susan no longer sighed for Olivet and Kedron, for in a Christian's earnest daily work she had found places equally sacred.