"The Lord be praised!" cried poor Janet, and rushing forward she caught the child from her husband, pressed Davie closely to her heart, and burst into a flood of grateful tears.
"You must look a bit better after your stray lamb, Janet," said Tam with a good-humoured smile. "I was just crossing the wood when Trusty set up a barking which made me go out o' my way just to see if he had found a rabbit, or started a black-cock. There was our wean [child] sitting much at his ease, munching a bannock, as contented and happy as if he'd been a duke eating venison out of a golden dish. But you mustna let the wee bairn wander about by himself, for if he'd gaen over the cliff, we'd never hae heard the voice o' our lammie again."
Very joyful and very thankful was Janet Maclean, as, with her boy in her arms, she returned to her cottage. Bridget had remained there to take care of the twins during the absence of their mother.
Mrs. Macbride received her neighbour with a smile, and the words, "Didna I say, Janet, that ye'd not one too many, nor would willingly part wi' a single bairn out o' your nine?"
"The Lord forgi'e my thankless heart!" said poor Janet, and she fondly kissed her boy. "We ne'er are grateful enough for our blessings until we are like to lose them."
Then putting the little child down on the brick floor, with fresh courage and industry the mother returned to her ironing again.
May we not hope that all Janet's toil and hard work for her children had one day a rich reward? May we not hope that not one out of the nine, when old enough and strong enough to labour for her who had laboured so hard for them, but did his best to repay her care and her love? How large is a parent's heart, that opens wide and wider to take in all the children of her family, however numerous those children may be! Though each new babe adds to poor parents' toils, and takes from their comforts, still the kind father and the fond mother, as they look round their home circle of rosy faces, can not only say but feel, "There is not one too many."
CHANG WANG was a Chinaman, and was reputed to be one of the shrewdest dealers in the Flowery Land. If making money fast be the test of cleverness, there was not a merchant in the province of Kwang Tung who had earned a better right to be called clever. Who owned so many fields of the tea-plant, who shipped so many bales of its leaves to the little Island in the west, as did Chang Wang? It was whispered, indeed, that many of the bales contained green tea made by chopping up spoilt black tea-leaves, and colouring them with copper—a process likely to turn them into a mild kind of poison; but if the unwholesome trash found purchasers, Chang Wang never troubled himself with the thought whether any one might suffer in health from drinking his tea. So long as the dealer made money, he was content; and plenty of money he made.