THE WHITE AND PINK TULIP.
The sad story of guilt and grief had so much hurt the two girls, that for some days they could think of nothing else; and they became grave and mournful. To revive their spirits, their Aunt took them to walk in the noble gardens of Lord Glenmore. Among the beds of flowers, was a plot of tulips of the finest forms, and the brightest colours: one of the tulips the Aunt plucked, and gave to Kate. It was a double one, of snowy brightness, with the edges tinted in shades of the richest crimson: nothing could be more lovely; and Kate said she would draw and paint it, as soon as she got home. "That is one of the uses of drawing and painting, Kate, to preserve an image of the lovely objects which nature scatters around us. When you have done this piece, we will take it to our friend, the widow; she is fond of flowers, and will value your sketch. Thus by your skill, in this charming art, you will not only preserve a picture of this lovely flower, but you will please one, who has pleased you, and deserves this mark of your regard."
Many other fine shrubs and plants were seen in the grounds and gardens; but no object gave them more joy, than their poor man digging away in one corner. He looked well, and seemed happy, and was kindly spoken of by the bailiff of Lord Glenmore, who told them the poor fellow worked hard, and was very grateful. And the man took off his ragged hat, and made a bow so humble, so thankful, it was cheering to look upon him. It was cheering to think a fellow-creature had been saved from sorrow, and placed where he could earn his bread with decent pride. "Do not let us think how often we have been misled by the poor," said the good Aunt; "let us only think of such as this man, who was a real object of distress, who has proved honest and grateful. It is better to take any trouble than to let one case of real distress pass without aid. How great is the reward for all our trouble, when we can gaze upon one eye lighted up to gladness through our efforts!"
THE DEAD GOLDFINCH.
Kate and Blanche had a bird, which they had long fed and nursed with the tenderest care. One day, it was found dead on the floor of the room, its little feet shrunk on its body, its wings outspread, and its head bloody; how did this happen? Blanche wept, and blamed Kate; Kate wept, and blamed Blanche: nothing but reproach and mourning was to be heard. The Aunt came in, to inquire into the matter. Both the girls began speaking at the same time, each blaming the other. "I do not like this," said the Aunt; "this is neither just nor kind; I do suppose you both have been to blame; and I must tell you, that in this instance, as in all others, it does not lessen our own faults to prove that others have erred with us. Indeed, I think it adds to our fault thus to accuse and reproach others. One of you left the cage on the very edge of the table, it seems; and the other forgot to fasten the door of the cage, with the care it ought to have been done. Thus both were to blame; and it would please me more, and be more a sign of virtue in you, if you would each lament your own error, and not rudely upbraid each other."
The two girls felt the good sense of their dear friend's remarks, and saw their error. The very last Sunday, they had heard a fine sermon, on the text of the "mote" and "beam," and they had said, at the time, what a good sermon it was, and how just, and wise, and true, was every part of it. Yet, behold! within a little week, each word and sentence in it was forgotten. Such is often the fate of good advice. It is hoped the advice given in this little book will not so soon pass away; but that all those who read of Kate and Blanche, and their good Aunt, will bear in mind their sayings and their doings; and then, like them, they will learn to profit by what happens around them. They will learn to turn each event of life to some good purpose, either for themselves or others, and thus earn that cheerful old age, which they have just had described to them in the Harper's tale.
PART IV.
THE GOOD SISTER.
"Come, Charles, and I will tell you all the tales I can think of: so be still, and hear me."