"A gray-haired officer," continued Grace,—"I grieve that I have forgotten his name—determined to make an effort to save poor Baird from the agony to which he was destined. 'It is impossible,' said he to the dark Indian, 'that you can think of putting chains upon that suffering young man. A bullet has been cut from his leg; his wound is fresh and sore; the chafing of the iron must cost him his life.' But the heart of the heathen whom he addressed seemed cold and hard as the iron itself. What cared Tippoo's servant if the prisoner suffered; what cared he if the prisoner died!" "'There are just as many pairs of fetters as there are captives,' he said; 'let what may come of it, every pair must be worn.'" "'Then,' said the noble officer, 'put two on me; I will wear his as well as my own.'" "Bless him," exclaimed the nurse, warmly. "That was a friend indeed; and what was the end of the story?" "The end of the story is that Baird lived to regain his freedom, Jived for victory and reward, lived to besiege and take the very city in which he had so long lain a wretched captive. In the last deadly struggle, Tippoo was slain." "And the kind officer?" interrupted Ann. "The generous friend died in prison," replied Grace. "Well," said the nurse, with a sigh, "he did more indeed than either the clergyman or the lady. To be willing to wear two chains, and all for the sake of his friend!" "What would you have thought," asked Grace, "if he had borne the fetters of all in the prison? What would you have thought if instead of being a captive himself, he had been free, and wealthy, and great, and, for the sake of the unhappy sufferers, had quitted a glorious palace to live in their loathsome dungeon, to wear their chains, to bear their stripes, to suffer and die in their stead that the captives might go free?" "Such a thing would never be done," cried Ann Rogers. "Such a thing has been done," exclaimed Grace. There was a murmur of surprise from her hearers; she paused a minute, and went on, clasping her hands as she spoke. "Helpless captives of sin, doomed to wear the heavy chain of God's wrath, trials in this world, endless woe in the next; such are we all by nature—such would we all have remained, had not the Son of God himself deigned to visit our prison. He bore the weight of all our guilt, He endured the punishment which we had deserved; and now, for all who receive His grace, the prison is thrown wide open; victory over sin here, and glory in heaven—such are the blessings bought for His people by the blood of our Lord Jesus Christ." "Ah!" observed the nurse, in an undertone, "that's how my lady used to speak. Many a time has she told me that there's no friend like the Lord; for there's no one on earth would do for us what He did of His own free will."