A good wife rose from her bed one morn,
And thought, with a nervous dread,
Of the piles of clothes to be washed, and more
Than a dozen mouths to be fed.
There were meals to be got for the men in the field,
And the children to fix away
To school, and the milk to be skimmed and churned;
And all to be done that day.

It had rained in the night, and all the wood
Was wet as it could be,
And there were pudding and pies to bake,
And a loaf of cake for tea.
The day was hot, and her aching head
Throbbed wearily as she said—
"If maidens but knew what good wives know,
They would, be in no hurry to wed."

"Jennie, what do you think I told Ben Brown?"
Called the farmer from the well;
And a flush crept up to his bronzed brow,
And his eye half bashfully fell;
"It was this," he said, and coming near,
He smiled, and stooping down,
Kissed her cheek—"'twas this, that you were the best
And dearest wife in town!"

The farmer went back to the field, and the wife,
In a smiling and absent way,
Sang snatches of tender little songs
She'd not sung for many a day.
And the pain in her head was gone, and the clothes
Were white as foam of the sea;
Her bread was light, and her butter was sweet,
And golden as it could be.

"Just think," the children all called in a breath,
"Tom Wood has run off to sea!
He wouldn't, I know, if he only had
As happy a home as we."
The night came down, and the good wife smiled
To herself, as she softly said,
"'Tis sweet to labor for those we love—
'Tis not strange that maids will wed!"

There is a glory in motherhood which robes woman in beauty, and fills the home with the light of heaven. The mother, busy with her cares, and attending to the wants of her children, is honored wherever Christ is loved.

Now, because the world links woman's work and mission together, the world is full of pictures of the mother and the child. To a true-hearted man, it is almost impossible to find any picture to which his nature turns with fonder delight than to that of a mother with a child sleeping on the breast, full of sweet trust and enjoying a dreamless repose, or being ministered to in his nude state in the morning bath. The spiritual covers the common with a halo of glory, and robes woman in the light of love.

The same is true of the housewife. In the daily routine of duty, which is essential to the comfort and bliss of home life, there is nothing very attractive in the ordinary occupations of the home. Let a woman attempt the task with no outlook, with no hope. Let her do it for so much money, and nothing more, and she becomes morose, discontented, sad and cheerless. Let her do this for love. Let her feel that she is contributing to some one's joy, or that she is to use the money earned for some worthy purpose, and at once the loftiness of her purpose sanctifies her deed, and renders that which would have been unbecoming, if done without a motive, right and noble when performed under the pressure of a great and noble aspiration, for "'tis sweet to labor for those we love."

Woman's work is defined by her Creator to be a work of charity. She is a helpmeet. A gift she came to man. Her life is a constant giving up of rights and privileges for the happiness of others. She waits on man not for pay, but for love. She ministers to him in sickness and in health. It is not the deed, but the spirit which sanctifies the deed, that makes it lovely. Compel her by force, by fear, or by rewards, to do what she performs because of love, and you destroy all the beauty of the action, and convert the ministering angel into a menial, the God-appointed woman into a brutalized slave. God made her a gift, and the law of her life is in giving. She fulfils the functions of her life by living in harmony with the law of love. The woman, described with such inexpressible tenderness by Luke (vii. 37-50), attracts attention by this feature. She came to Christ while he was reclining at table. She had sinned. Still she loved. Here were Christ's feet hanging over the table's edge, while Christ reclined. As he was talking, behold this woman bending over them, her hot tears raining on them, and she busy wiping off the tear-drops with her hair, and kissing them, anointed them with costly ointment. She loved, and therefore evidenced it by deeds. Her love, blossoming into action, won Christ. He saw that she loved. Perhaps love had led her astray at first. No matter. Love she possessed, and love she desired to lavish on some object worthy of her regard. That object she discovered in Jesus. She took her alabaster-box of precious ointment, and went after him. She enters the Pharisee's house; it may have been the house where she had fallen. The Pharisee seemed to know her character, and so he said, "This man, if he were a prophet, would have known who and what manner of woman this is that toucheth him, for she is a sinner." Christ did not at once recognize the suspicion, but supposing the case of the two debtors, and having obtained from Simon the declaration, that the one would love most who was forgiven most, turned upon him the force of the logic, by saying, "Seest thou this woman? I entered into thine house, thou gavest me no water for my feet, but she both washed my feet with tears, and wiped them with the hairs of her head. Thou gavest me no kiss; but this woman, since the time I came, hath not ceased to kiss my feet. My head with oil thou didst not anoint; but this woman hath anointed my feet with ointment. And he said to the woman, Thy faith hath saved thee; go in peace."

Let woman's work be regarded as a work of charity by man, and the larger portion of women will be satisfied. The servant finds pleasure in service, when the obligation is recognized as a debt not to be paid for in money.