"I wonder," she said, brightening up as the thought struck her, "if that is what father meant! I can't do right myself, but God will help me." CHAPTER VI. THE STORY. One Sunday afternoon, as Mary sat reading in the porch, Jack and Charlie came and sat down by her on the old sofa; and soon Charlie put his little curly head between her face and the book, and said coaxingly, "Please tell us a story, sister Mary." The little upturned face was well kissed before sister Mary said, "Well, Jack, call Nannie and Belle, and we'll have a story." Jack ran off in high glee, for sister Mary's stories were always welcomed by the children. Nannie and Belle came as fast as their feet would bring them, and were soon sitting in readiness on the porch steps. "Now, sister Mary," said Nannie, "a _good_ story, please." "What do you mean by a good one, Nannie?" "One that will teach us to be good," said Nannie in a low voice. "Oh, nonsense!" said Jack; "that wasn't what I meant. I want a pretty story." "So do I," said Belle. "And so do I," chimed in Charlie. "Well," said sister Mary, "can't I tell you a good story, and a pretty one too?" "I suppose so," said Jack, kicking the foot-stool. "Well, she can't tell us anything, Jack," said Belle, "if you don't keep your feet still." "I think you are rather hard on Jack; but never mind. Now," said sister Mary, "we'll have our story:-- * * * * * "It was a poor little room the sun was looking into, just as it was setting. There was no carpet on the floor, and no curtains to the window. The old grate was cracked and rusty, and contained a few red coals among the embers. By the fire, in a curious old chair, roughly made, yet looking comfortable, sat a little girl rocking herself backwards and forwards. It was a very pale face that the sun shone upon, and a very thin, pale hand it was that the little girl was holding up, shading her eyes. Every little while the girl dropped her hand, and looked towards the window with a bright smile,--and no wonder! for there stood the prettiest of rose-bushes, with bright green leaves, and one dark crimson bud just opening. She sat watching it, till the last rays of the sun died away, and it began to grow dark. Then the look of sadness came back to her face, and drawing her old shawl closer round her, she sat leaning her head on her hand. By-and-by there was a sound of footsteps, and the door opened, and a man entered with a slow and heavy step. She turned round with a quick smile,--'O father! what has made you so late?'