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other means of education than that obtainable at the now obsolete dame's school.

Here, the rosy round-faced babies began to engage in the tearful mysteries of A B C.; here, the older lads and lasses waded in the genealogical table contained in St. Matthew's Gospel, until they neither floundered nor tripped, at which point Dame Dawson's "course" might be considered finished, and the successful pupils were pronounced perfect in the art of reading.

The generation of little beings now occupying the low wooden benches in the old woman's room was far less satisfactory than the preceding one-so, at least, Dame Dawson declared, especially in moments when they harassed her with questions, which was a favourite mode of retaliation when she was out of humour, or severe in her sentences upon the luckless ones. Rosy Martin, however, saved up all her difficulties for a far more patient ear her grandfather's. She was, therefore, particularly glad that he should come in from his daily village gossip just when the flames died down and she could see no further than the words her fingers had just reached, and which seemed to raise some doubt in her mind; it was like looking through thick mist upon very unfamiliar country.

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'Grandfather, why did they rejoice?" she said, looking up as the trembling old hand rested gently on her thick brown curls.

"Eh, dearie, and what is thy little head busy about?" said grandfather; and the child explained.

For some moments old Martin rubbed his head thoughtfully with his green cotton handkerchief-a custom of his when he found himself in some considerable perplexity.

"There's a many things writ down in the Bible as folks like we can't get to the bottom of," he said at last, but perceiving the little girl's disappointment, he added, "I'm not clear about it, Rosy, but I most think as there was a

feeling in their minds as it'd some way turn out a good thing for 'em. So, of course, they was main glad."

"Yes, of course," repeated Rosy, yet her tone was not that of full and complete conviction, and after a moment of hesitation she began again. "I would like to know why."

"S'pose you was to read me the bit of Scripter clear off," said grandfather; "I haven't hearn tell much about that there place of Bethlem for many a year: its likely I forget it. Read the words, Rosy, and then we'll see what we can make of 'em."

"I'll have to spell if I come to one that's very long," replied the child; but this appeared no disadvantage in the judgment of either party, so with a cheerful confidence springing from her known pre-eminence at the dame's school, Rosy went through the business to the great delight of the listener.

"If that's not worth walking a mile for, I'd like to be told what is," exclaimed the old man, as she came to the end of her breath and of the chapter at the same moment. "I don't believe as any lady up in London town would have done it better."

"Oh yes, a lady would, grandfather," said Rosy, colouring, though highly flattered and pleased by his admiration. "But tell me now about the 'exceeding great joy.' Do you make it out better since you heard the words?"

The old man looked perplexed, and brought out every word slowly as if he feared he might be dealing out a disappointment. "No, my pretty, I can't say it's as clear to my mind as I might wish. But what call have you to trouble about it? It's all so long ago."

Rosy had a habit of repeating her grandfather's utterances; she did so now. "Yes, it's all so long ago. No one you ever knew could have been alive then."

"No, no, dearie. Why it's hundreds and hundreds of years gone by-more'n you could count up, though you be a pretty little scholar for your age."

"I wish I had been alive then," said Rosy, meditating;

"I suppose I should have rejoiced too, shouldn't I, do you think, grandfather?"

"Yes, yes, dearie," said the old man; but he was secretly casting about in his mind how he might best divert his little pet's thoughts from a point upon which he was consciously weak, and he added quickly, "But when one talks of rejoicing, don't you do it now, Rosy; you and me and all the rest of folks? To say nothing of the Christmas pudding and the like, don't we have green stuff put up in the church? and don't the bells ring out at midnight? and don't every one say 'Merry Christmas to you?' Why, of course, that's what rejoicing means."

"I know all that," said the child, slowly and with manifest dissatisfaction. She felt the need of some better explanation; she longed after some knowledge such as she could not express, and there was no one to teach her that now, as eighteen hundred years ago, the joy is, that a light has shone upon the world's darkness, that the long-promised Saviour has been given to His waiting people, that the little helpless Babe of Bethlehem is the God of Heaven humbled to poverty, to obscurity, to suffering, that so He may purchase us the right to enter into His Kingdom.

But Rosy Martin's questions were effectually silenced by the entrance of her mother, who, upon the plea of busy preparation for the morrow, hurried her off to bed, though it was a full hour earlier than usual; and long before the bells swept over the little village, borne far away on the gusts of strong wind, she was sleeping quietly.

Meanwhile, old George Martin sat on so long in his fire-side chair, that Rosy's parents left him there. "You'll be getting to your bed soon, father?" said his son, and he answered, "Aye, aye, lad-time enough. I'll stay and catch a sound of the Christmas bells afore I sleep; maybe I'll not see the end of another year."

He had said it before, many a time, without any thought of its meaning; but now it set him wondering how and

when he should die, and, above all, how that "darling of his would bear to lose him, and with an indistinct remembrance of having been told that God would give all that was asked of Him, he began praying for life as earnestly as if he were young and strong, rather than an old worn man of seventy-seven years. Thus, the bells surprised him as they struck up their gladsome peal of joy in the solemn midnight hour, and told the tidings that it was Christmas Day.

"Yon's the bells," he murmured. "I wish Rosy was awake and up to hear them, I do. But for all I've prayed to God, I may be dead and gone before another year comes round; so I'm thinking I'll go to church to-morrow, and the little one'll go with me. Perhaps she'll make out a bit about the Scripter she was puzzling over: anyway, it can't do us any harm."

So, having looked out upon the night, and found that the dark clouds of the evening were growing fewer and fewer, and at last the moon was shining steadily and clearly, old Martin crept quietly up to his own small attic and lay down to rest-to fancy that Rosy stood by his side, pointing at a star which shone over Hillingdon, as she said, "When they saw it, they rejoiced with exceeding great joy."

CHAPTER II.

THE FIRST SORROW.

DURING the small hours of that chill wintry night, little Rosy Martin was dreaming. She thought that she stood with her grandfather on the bank of the river (their favourite walk in summer time), with king-cups and meadow-sweet at their feet, and the pleasant sounds of lowing cattle and humming insects and singing birds all around them, while a soft breeze swept the trees, bending their branches so low that the leaves almost dipped in the

water. And then grandfather seemed telling Rosy that he must go away; leave her standing alone and afraid on the bough-shaded bank of the river. "Rosy, Rosy!" Was it his voice calling her? for he could not surely mean to let her wander home without him; he could not turn away with that sorrowfully-spoken good-bye for a last word, and never look back to see her stretching out her hands towards him with tears falling fast.

"Rosy, Rosy !" Why it was her mother, standing quite close by her bed with such a troubled face. “Grandfather is not very well. He roused us up calling for you, child; but now his mind seems wandering, and he doesn't appear to`know any one. Still you had better come, he'll

be likely to want you again."

The little girl obeyed without a word; she was too startled by such an unexpected awakening to make either question or remark, as she hurried on her clothing, seeing in every button and string an almost insurmountable barrier to the completion of the process. To herself it was long, but it was really only a few minutes before she went softly into the room which was called "grandfather's," and up to the bed whereon the old man lay. He was evidently wandering now; calling to some one whom Rosy, by means of the family Bible, made out to be his long-dead wife, her own grandmother, of whom no one had ever spoken to her. Emma, Emma," he was saying. "Yon's the bells calling you to church. It's Christmas morn you know. Will I go with you, d'ye say? but where's the use, seeing that I'm not by way of being a religious man. Yet for once, if it'll please you I—”

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'Speak to him," said Rosy's father, who stood by. Say a word as'll make him remember where he is. I never knew him like this."

For a moment the child hesitated, and hid her face in her cold little hands from very fear-then she put her lips close to the old man's ear: “Grandfather, dear grandfather, I've come if you want me. Rosy's here, grandfather!"

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