Shall I ever forget that little childish scene? Does it not rise before me every time I read those tender words in the 103rd Psalm, "Like as a father pitieth his children, so the Lord pitieth them that fear Him." Now, what I want you all to remember, dear children, is this. Let this little picture of an earthly father's pity, help you to understand the Heavenly Father's pity. We all have troubles and fears, difficulties and temptations. Some more, some less. Let us take them to the pitying Heavenly Father. The difficulty or fear may be as unwarrantable as my dread of the earwig, or it may be a real danger or temptation which assails us. But whatever it is, trust the great Father's love. Tell Him all about it, ask Him to help you, as He knows best how; leave it in His Hands how to do it, and receive His assurance of peace when you have done all this. Then at rest from your fears, and the worst of your difficulties, go hand in hand into the work of life, with a firmer trust than ever in your Father's love. And the Heavenly Father is always near at hand! CHAPTER XI. LOST ON THE COMMON. "WHY, Bertha! I've been looking for you everywhere," exclaimed her cousin Norman, a little reproachfully, "Aunt Esther was quite in a fidget." It was hot, and he had been sent out on the Common, and had been wandering about for an hour, calling and searching. Bertha's eyes fell. She had not intended to set everybody hunting, she had only felt miserable, and had wanted to be alone. She loved the Common, and was always allowed to go out at the back gate and wander about, so long as she kept in sight of home. Norman threw himself on the grass in front of her; not that he felt particularly friendly, but because he was tired. So they sat in silence, till, a little rested, he raised his eyes to her woe-begone face. "What's the matter?" he asked, bluntly. "I've been naughty again," said Bertha, simply. "What about?" with more interest. Bertha felt the difference in the tone. "I can't get on with Aunt Esther—" "I expect you're sometimes in fault yourself," hazarded Norman, looking up. "Ye-es—oh, yes, I am; but she's so sharp! She's always after me: 'do this,' and 'do that.' Mother never used to keep on so!" "Of course not," said Norman, briefly. He hoped Bertha was not going to cry about her mother, because he hated people to cry. "And then when Father comes home, I know Aunt Esther tells him tales about me, and that makes me mad—" "Perhaps you fancy she does, and after all she doesn't," said Norman. Bertha shook her head. "I know it isn't nice of me to be always thinking such things about her; but, indeed, Norman, I can't help it, and I do feel so miserable." The tears came now, and Norman did not so much mind, as he expected. He was full of sympathy with his little cousin, but he did not see how to help her. "I s'pose there's some way out of it," he said, consideringly, "there generally is—" Again Bertha shook her head.