"I remember once papa had a letter from a clergyman with a beautiful description of these graces. 'Faith is trust in God. Hope is expectation that he will fulfil his promises to us, but charity is love, and love is likeness to God.'" Large drops gathered in Helen's eyes. "I'm sure I have not love to everybody," was her mental ejaculation. "There is my guardian. I've always said I hated him. And when I think how ungratefully he has treated papa's last requests to him, I can scarcely hear his name without horror. Nothing that I can imagine would induce me to live with him again. No, I cannot be a Christian, I have not charity." The thought grew more distressing every moment. Helen had been a child of praying parents, and the arguments she used in her self-examination proved that she had been carefully instructed in her duty to God. There were other influences, too, which had produced their effect. It was impossible for any one, not wholly hardened, to live in intimate companionship as she had done, with such a family as her pastor's, without feeling that religion was the first thing to be desired. By the time Helen had reached this painful conclusion, the horse had arrived at the top of the hill which overlooked the new village of Mottville. She pulled the rein and he stopped. "What is the use," she asked herself, "of my collecting scholars into a class, if I cannot teach them to love the Saviour? And how can I teach them, if I do not love him myself?" Her lip quivered, and her breast heaved convulsively. She was ready to sink with grief when the gracious Spirit who was watching over her, suggested the question: "What hinders me from beginning to love Him now, right here, under these trees? God is everywhere; and he knows all the thoughts of my heart. He sees that I am sorry that I have lived so many years unmindful of all his goodness; yes, more sorry than I can tell; and that I really need his forgiveness. It seems to me I already begin to love him. How can I help it when I think of all he suffered for me?" She clasped her hands together, and gazing up into the clear November sky, murmured: "Dear Jesus, I do love you. I can ask the children to come to thee, for I can tell them how sweet it is to be near thine arms." A few minutes longer she sat there, her whole being filled with gratitude for this fresh token of God's favor. Memory reviewing the events of her past life, which now in the new light afforded her, seemed but one long history of her heavenly Father's love. In the bitterness of the parting from her papa, in the trials she endured at her guardian's, she realized that God, by his Spirit, was drawing her to himself, and preparing her for the work she believed he had now accomplished in her soul. She was at last interrupted in her meditations by seeing that a carriage was rapidly ascending the hill, and would speedily pass her. Jerking the reins, therefore, she spoke to the horse to go on, and then saying: