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ONE fine summer afternoon, a number of happy children were amusing themselves on the village green. Some were tossing their balls, others were playing at marbles, several of the little girls had their dolls, and all were busy at some game or other. All? No, not quite all, for there was one who stood a little way off from the rest, and who seemed to have no share in their joys. She was a pale, sickly, ill-tempered girl, with rough, untidy hair, and not very clean hands and face. Her frock was old, but it was well mended, and a thin shawl was thrown loosely around her, not so much for warmth, for the day was sunny, as to hide the sad stoop in her back. Poor child! she was crooked and rather lame, and she could not bear that any one should notice or speak about it. Her affliction was a sore trial to her, for she had not yet learned that it was sent by a wise and loving Father, who knows what is for our real good; and so it made her cross and impatient, and ready to take offense in a moment. The village children were, in general, kind to her; but, like most children, they did not think much about trouble, and could hardly make allowance for this poor girl's quick feelings and sudden outbursts of temper; and they often vexed her by their remarks, when they did not intend to do so. A few of them, I am sorry to say, were wicked enough sometimes to tease her by mocking her angry words; but this was not often, and most of the distress which she suffered she brought upon herself by her hasty speeches and selfish doings. She wanted to have her own way in everything, and she thought that because she was a cripple they ought all to give up to her. Her young friends did not quite think so, and thus their disputes generally arose.

It was so this afternoon. They would not yield to her wishes, or rather to her orders, and she soon quarreled with them, and at length got up with an angry burst of tears, and declared that she would not stay with them any longer, but would go home and tell her grandmother how unkind they had been to her.

"You may go if you like, and you may say what you like," called out Betsy Stevens; "they know at home pretty well, by this time, what a temper you have, and we shall be very glad when you are gone; we shall get on ever so much better without you."

What a pity she is so cross!" said one of the little party, who was a new-comer; "shall I try to persuade her to come back and play more fairly?"

"Oh, no," was the reply; "let her alone; it's of no use to meddle with Patience, -- you will get no good by it; she is one of the crossest girls you ever saw." Patience! What! was that girl's name Patience? and she so hasty, hot-tempered, and impatient? Yes, it was not quite the name for her. Everybody said so when they first heard it; but the children who were used to it thought no more about it than if it had been Mary, or Susan, or Emma.

The name had been given to Patience because it was the name of a dearly-loved aunt who died very young. It was of course impossible to tell whether the baby, when it grew older, would be like its name; but I dare say the mother hoped so; and perhaps if she had lived to bring it up it might have been, for she was a pious Christian woman, and would have trained her child wisely and prayerfully. But both father and mother were taken away by a fever, while Patience was still an infant; and her grandmother, in whose care she was then placed, was not a very fit person to take charge of a delicate child. She was a busy person, and she meant well to the little one, but she was a rough, off-hand sort of woman. It was not her fault, though, that Patience was lame, for that was brought about through the carelessness of a girl who was dancing her up and down and who let her fall, and, for fear of being scolded, never mentioned the injury she had done, or it might in some measure have been remedied.

The little orphan's childhood was not a happy one. Sometimes her grandmother would scold her most unjustly, and at other times she would spoil her by letting her do as she pleased. Her bad passions were allowed to grow. Her grandmother foolishly said, "Patience will know better when she is bigger; besides, who can expect a poor afflicted child like her to be as wise and loving as other children?" For the same reason she was allowed to idle about, and to go in and out as she chose, doing anything or not doing anything, just as she was in the humor for it, and wearying others as well as herself by her fretful and tiresome ways. Yet she was really a kind and sensible child, if one had taken the trouble to find it out; and there were some warm and loving feelings hidden in her little heart, only they were so crusted over with love of self and ill-temper that no one knew they were there. So the fact was, that Patience was not at all liked in the village; and, although many pitied her, few loved her.

But we left her sitting on the trunk of a tree, on the village green, in one of her cross moods. Look! she is now walking away as fast as she can, her cheeks flushed and tearful, and her mind full of anger. She meant to have enjoyed herself so that afternoon! It was such fine weather, and, being half-holiday, so many children were out that there was no want of playmates and, besides the prospect of some nice games, Patience had a penny in her pocket, which her grandmother had given her to spend, and with which she intended to buy some sweetmeats, and make a little feast on the green. But now her play was over, and the long, dreary afternoon must be passed alone, for she could not go back to the green, and she knew that her grandmother was out. How dull it would be to sit by herself in the cottage, with no one to speak to except the old cat, whose playing days were long since over, and nothing to amuse her but the worn-out story books which she had read so often that she knew them by heart!