“I am sorry this has happened; sorry that any one should miss what I am going to say; for I hoped to interest all these dear children in the work of sending the gospel to the heathen.” It was kind of him to call them _all_ dear children after that dreadful event, Rue reflected, as, with burning cheeks and tearful eyes, she stood, with a number of other little culprits, in one of the wide halls, for even punishment was in rows at the Home. Shifting her weight from one restless foot to the other, yet trying to stand sufficiently upright to answer the requirements of the penance, Rue did sincerely wish that she had been a good girl and remained quietly in the chapel, partly because of the humiliation that had befallen her, but also because she wanted to hear what he had to say on the particular subject he had named. “Why didn’t he begin with that, and then I’d have listened!” she thought, rather resentfully. For back among Rue’s shadowy memories of the past, of love, and mother, and a home that was not _the_ Home, was a dim recollection of some curious articles which her baby hands had only been allowed to touch carefully, because they were mementoes of an uncle who had died far away on a mission field. “So it would have been most like hearing about my relations; only I haven’t got any,” mused Rue. “Oh, dear! I wish I’d stayed good and hadn’t pulled Mary Jane’s hair. I didn’t mean to, anyway.” She tried to find out about it afterwards by inquiring of one of the other girls. “Oh! he wanted the children to try and save up something, so they could help send Bibles to the heathen. Guess, if he lived here long, he’d find we hadn’t anything to save,” was the hurried reply. Bibles! That was where Rue was rich. She actually had two that had been brought from that faintly remembered home. “I don’t suppose I’ll read one of ’em to pieces; not if I used it till I’m a big woman,” she said to herself. “I might give the other one. I ought to help, ’count of being a relation, somehow, and I want to be good. I just do.” Later in the day she ventured another inquiry: “How will he get those to the heathen?” “I don’t know. Why, yes, he’ll send ’em through the post-office, of course. What do you care so much about it for?”