But I cannot attempt to tell you one half of the wonders that the microscope revealed to them that night, or the lessons it taught them of the power and wisdom of the Creator. Mrs. Greenwell pointed out to them the immense inferiority of man's best and most careful work when compared with the simplest work of God, A piece of delicately woven silk, of the finest texture, that looked perfect to the eye, when placed under the microscope appeared rough, coarse, and uneven--rather like a common door-mat, in fact; but the wing of a fly, the hair of a mouse, the eye of an insect, the scale of a fish, the dust of a moth's wing, the leaf of a plant--anything made by God, and owing nothing to the hand of man--the more it was magnified, the more beauties you discovered. Examine by the microscope the humblest and most minute of God's creations, and you will always find beauty, order, and perfection. CHAPTER VII. A SAD BIRTHDAY. It is Charlie's birthday: two years have passed away since the great going out to tea at Mrs. Greenwell's, and he is now fourteen years old. It is a very quiet and a very sad birthday for Charlie. His father is ill--his good, kind father. This illness had been coming on for the last six months. Many of his neighbours and fellow-workmen had noticed for some time that "John Heedman had a bad look," and would shake their heads and look significantly at each other as he passed by, with his slow gait, his stooping shoulders, and loud, hollow cough, now almost constant, and more painful than ever. Often when Charlie awoke in the night he would hear his father pacing the room, unable to rest, or even lie down. The first time he heard him, he thought "Father must be ill; he has gone downstairs," and springing out of bed, he crept lightly down to see what was the matter. The shutters were thrown open, and the blind pulled up to the top. Charlie saw it was a calm, still night, and that every part of the sky visible from the window was spangled with a countless multitude of brilliant stars. His father stood at the window--he was leaning slightly forward--with clasped hands, and gazing up with eager, questioning eyes. Charlie felt that he was praying, and crept softly back. He sat down at the foot of the stairs to wait, feeling cold and shivering, and with a strange fear at his heart. He had not sat many minutes when he heard his father moving; then he called softly at the door, "Are you ill, father? can I do anything for you?" "Why, Charlie, how is this?" said his father, taking him by the hand and bringing him into the room. "I heard you down here, and I was afraid you were ill. Are you ill?" asked Charlie, anxiously. "Not altogether ill, perhaps, Charlie, and yet not well. My cough is very bad to-night, I can get no rest; when I lie down I feel as if I should be suffocated. But how cold you are, my boy! run away to bed," he said, trying to speak more cheerfully, "or we shall be having you laid up next."