"Lucia," he said, looking rather abstractedly up into the tree, and through it to the blue sky beyond, "I've been thinking perhaps we ought to send back that little tricycle, and not use it any more." "Why, dear?" she answered. "Because it would serve us right for being so deceitful." "Yes, I see that; but I am sure you are sorry without any further punishment. You have suffered enough, poor Evan." "I am sorry; and though I have been very ill, do you know, Lucia, I'm really glad we were not let go in our naughtiness." "Are you, Evan?" "Yes, I've had time to think, and you have been so kind, and that night when my head ached so dreadfully, do you remember what you said?" "Not exactly. I remember I sat by you and tried to comfort you." "You said, 'Jesus says to you, Evan,— "'"Him that cometh to Me I will in no wise cast out."'" "I remember that," answered Lucia. "And I thought I had never come, and I wished I had, and then all in a moment something seemed to say to me, 'Why don't you come now?' and so, Lucia, I came." "Oh, Evan, that is worth all the accident and trouble, if it has led you to Him!" Evan nodded. His eyes were full, but he spoke again quickly, winking away his tears with an effort. "Lucia, you thought it was a great bother to come home to take care of us, didn't you?" Lucia started and coloured. "I only felt that for a very little while, Evan. God taught me better than that very soon." "Well, you never guessed that you could help us so nicely to be good, did you?" "No," said Lucia humbly. "So you will not be so sorry now—" "I am not sorry at all. I am very glad." "I'm glad," responded Evan heartily. "I never thought how nice it would be to have the Lord Jesus for my very own Saviour." So the last cloud rolled from Lucia's heart, and that day, as she sat on her favourite wall at the edge of the wood to watch the sunset, she could not but think over the past, and thank God for His kindness in saving her from herself. When the children were all in bed that night, she wrote to her cousins a brighter letter than she had been able to frame before. At the end she said— "I was dreadfully unwilling, as you know, to take up my 'trust;' but oh, I cannot tell you how good God has been to me in it, nor how undeserving I feel of all His love. I should like to tell you this, because I am afraid I did not give you a very good idea of what a Christian should be like." That letter sped on its way. It had cost Lucia a great deal to write it, but it set her cousins thinking, and bore fruit after many days. Emmie took it to her mother, but did not get much sympathy from her about it. "I am sorry to see her more religious," she said. "We must have her here again, and make her forget it." So Emmie carried it to the housekeeper, thinking she would be sure to understand. And so she did. "It's the best news I've heard for many a day," she exclaimed heartily. "Oh, Miss Emmie, if you did but know it!"