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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!

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Patience forgot that she need not have been thus shut out from the merry little groups on the green, if she had not been so cross and self-willed. Like many persons who do wrong, she laid the blame on others instead of herself, and thought how unkind everybody was to her.

She went on more slowly when she was out of the children's sight. The sunshine made everything look bright and pleasant, the birds sang sweetly in the trees and hedges, and the flowers by the wayside nodded their little heads, as much to say, "How do you do? What a beautiful world we live in!" But the sunbeams, though they rested on her old bonnet, and faded shawl, and danced up and down on her cotton frock, did not help to cheer Patience. She did not listen to the songs of the birds, and she trampled down many pretty crimson-tipped little daisies without even seeing them. She went along with a heavy heart, not seeming to care where she was going, so long as she could get out of everybody's way; and if she could only have run away from herself she would have been still more thankful. But she could not do that. We may leave other people, but we can not get rid of ourselves; and, therefore, it makes a great difference to our happiness what sort of "self" it is which we are carrying along with us. How could Patience have any real peace while she was burdened with such sinful tempers and feelings? and the burden seemed to get heavier and heavier every day.

There was a shady place at the end of the narrow lane, just at the bottom of a sloping bank, and Patience, t-ir-ed both in body and mind, threw herself on the soft grass, and felt as miserable at that moment as anybody in all the village.

"Oh dear, oh dear!" she said mournfully to herself; "nobody loves me! everybody teases me and tries to vex me! not one of the girls ever takes any part. It is too bad, that it is; I can not bear it any longer." And then Patience buried her face in her lap, and sobbed so violently that it was no wonder if she did not hear the sound of approaching footsteps.

Patience, in her childish misery, wished to die. She did not think, she did not know, how unfit she was to die, nor yet what a precious gift life is to those who use it rightly. She did not know how some dying persons would gladly part with all they have for one day or even one hour more to live.

We left Patience sitting in a shady place at the end of a narrow lane. Some one was very near to her as she sat sobbing there, although she did not see any one, because she never looked up. But presently a hand was quietly laid on her shoulder, and a gentle voice said kindly to her, "What is the matter, my poor child? Can I do anything for you?"

Patience raised her head at these words, a little startled and a little ashamed. A young lady, about sixteen years of age, in a neat dress, was bending over her. There was a sweet, loving expression in the face of Annie Leslie, which won your heart directly; at least, it gained the wayward heart of little Patience before she had time to consider about it. The young lady was quite a stranger to her, but Patience felt that she would be a friend to anybody who wanted one. And was not Patience in want of a friend? Indeed she was. Did she find one? We shall see.

Patience left off crying, but she did not speak for a minute. She was so surprised at the visitor that she hardly knew what to say. And when, after a slight pause, the above words were repeated, more gently, if possible, than at first, instead of answering them, Patience could not help crying again.

It was very strange, but the tears would come, although she tried hard to stop them. She was so unused to be spoken to so tenderly that it seemed like a dream to her. It was not a dream, however, for the young lady soon drew from Patience the story of her troubles; and, as you may imagine, it was a very sorrowful story which Patience told her. You would have thought, if you had heard it, that there was nobody in all the world so badly treated as she was. But she never touched upon her own faults, nor confessed how peevish and cross she had been.

Annie Leslie, however, formed a correct guess how matters stood. It was easy to tell, from the little girl's flashing eyes and fault-finding, that she was not very likely to take the most quiet side in a quarrel. Yet, when Patience came to the end of her account and looked up for words of kindness, she had them directly; for Annie pitied her very much and longed to comfort her. It might be that Patience had to blame herself for her troubles, but that only made them the harder to bear; and Annie said how sorry she was for her, and how wrong it was for the other girls to be selfish and unkind.

"But don't you think," she added, with a pleasant smile, "that perhaps you have been a little hasty as well as they?"

Patience colored. "I dare say I have," she answered, bluntly; "but it was impossible to help it; that Betsy Stevens is enough to provoke anybody. You never knew a worse girl than she is. She is always so spiteful to me. I hate her, that I do!"

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"Hush," said Annie, gravely; "do you not know that it is very wrong to hate any one? The Bible tells us that we are to love all; we are even to love our enemies."

"I can't love Betsy Stevens," said Patience, "and I never shall!"

"Not while you feel as you do now," replied Annie; "but God can give you kind feelings instead of angry ones, and then you will be able to love her."

"But I don't want to," said Patience.

"Not if God wishes?" said Miss Annie.

Patience was silent. "You have not been happy this afternoon; you are not happy now; I know you are not. Now would you not like to be happy from morning till night ? would you not like to find out the way to get everybody to be civil to you?"

"Yes, miss," said Patience.

"Would you not like to have some one who would love you very much, and who would take care of you when you were in trouble? some one who would wipe away your tears and help you to get on better than you do? some one who would be a real friend to you, and who would never go away from you?"

"Oh, yes, indeed I should!" said Patience.

"Then you can have it, if you like," said Annie. "Jesus Christ can be just such a kind friend to you. He sees how sorrowful and unhappy you are, and he wants to comfort and bless you, and make you happy. He loves you very much."

"Oh, no, he can not love me," said Patience; "I am not good."

"Yes, but indeed he does love you," said Annie, as she smoothed the hair on her forehead; "and he has sent me to tell you so to-day. He knows you are not good, but still he loves you; and if you will only love him in return, he will teach you how to be good, and he will help you to be so. You can not think how much Jesus loves you! Why, he not only came down from heaven, and lived in a worse home than yours, and was very poor, and was hated and ill-treated by so many people, but he died a painful death on the cross for us, that, if we believe in him, we might go to heaven when we die. And now he asks you to let him be your friend and Saviour; and will you not, my child?"

"I think I will," said Patience. She felt that all the young lady said about Jesus was true. Annie's pity had prepared her poor little closed-up heart to open to the story of a Saviour's great and divine pity. "Won't you tell me any more about him?" she said, as Annie rose from her low seat on the bank.

"No, I must go now," said Annie, "because I shall be wanted at home; but I will see you again soon, if I can. Where do you live?"

"In the little cottage by the mill, miss, with my grandmother, and she is mostly out at work."

"Then I will look in when I am coming past, and if you are there we can have another talk together. Can you read?"

"Oh, yes," said Patience.

Annie opened a little basket which hung on her arm, and took out a bright green-covered little book, containing a very pretty story and two or three nice pictures, and she gave it to Patience to keep for her own. Patience was highly pleased.

"Now good-bye," she said, cheerfully, "and do not forget what I have been saying to you this afternoon. Think it over till you see me next time, and try to be good-tempered and forgiving." She turned back, and added, with a smile, "But I have not asked you yet what your name is; will you tell me?"

"Patience Heywood, miss."

Annie did not express any surprise at this singular name, although she could not help being amused with it. "Well," said Annie to herself, as she tripped rightly through the quiet meadow, "I must try if I can not, with God's blessing, make the wrong name become a right one."

Annie Leslie was the squire's youngest daughter. She had just returned from school, and she had come home with a heart full of love to the Saviour, and a strong desire to be actively employed in his service. She had already taken a class in the Sunday school; and she thought she had found another way of usefulness through this unlooked-for meeting with Patience; for it was very plain that there was plenty of room for improvement in the character and habits of the poor neglected little orphan; and Annie hoped well for the future, from the way in which Patience had listened to her.

When Annie reached home she told her little adventure to her mother and sister, and they were much interested in her attempt to cheer and instruct the forlorn little girl; but when she said she thought the child was a cripple, and that her name was Patience Heywood, Annie's sister cried out, "Oh, you will never be able to make anything of that girl, she is so very perverse and dull!"

"You know her then?" said Annie.

"I should think I did," answered Ruth; "she has been a great trouble to me in the day-school; for almost every time that I have gone there, there has been some complaint made about 'Patience Heywood;' and it was about as much use for me to reprove her, or to reason with her, as to waste my words upon a block of wood. She has left now, and I am sure I am not sorry, nor the mistress either."

"Why did she leave?"

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"She was punished for striking one of the girls, and she was so offended by that that she would not come any more. Her grandmother is very foolish, and lets her do just as she likes."

"And is Patience in the Sunday school?"

"No, she never has been. I have tried several times to get her for a scholar, in hopes that she would learn something that would do her good, but I have tried in vain. I called at her grandmother's for that purpose only last month; and when Patience, who was standing at the door, observed me turning toward the mill, she ran out of the house as fast as she could, lest she should have to see me and speak to me. What can you do with such a girl?"

"I do not know," said Annie, smiling; but I think she has taken rather a fancy to me, and I shall perhaps be able to gain some influence over her. I shall not rest until I persuade her to come to my class. I am fond, you know, of having trials to overcome; they seem to urge one on with so much more zeal."

"Well, you will find plenty if you take Patience in hand," said Ruth.

Annie thought, from the little which she had already seen of Patience, that Ruth's opinion of her was incorrect; but she did not say so, -- she left it for time to prove. Only she also thought, as she went upstairs to put off her bonnet, that, even if Patience was so very bad, there was all the more need to persevere in trying to make her better. Should we ever give up the worst of cases in despair, when the Saviour, in whose footsteps we profess to tread, came "to seek and to save that which was lost"?

After Miss Annie went away, Patience sat still for some time in the same place. She watched her across the meadow, and along the road as far as she could see, with that sort of pleasure which we feel when we look at a picture which pleases us. There was a charm to her about Annie, which she could not have described, and which, perhaps, she hardly understood; it was the charm which a kind heart and an unselfish love threw around her. Patience had found somebody at last who could feel for and with her, -- somebody to whom she might look up for help and advice, without any fear of being pushed away or harshly scolded. And the poor, sickly, deformed child trudged back to her grandmother's cottage with a little bit of sunshine in her mind, which Annie must have put there, for it had not been there before she came. And though, as she went on, Patience heard in the distance the loud shouts of the children still playing on the village green, they did not disturb the soft calm which now rested on her spirit.

Patience did not forget what Annie had told her about the love which Jesus feels for us. She had read of it in the New Testament, but she had never thought much about it, nor thought, indeed, that it in any way concerned her; but now it seemed fresh and real to her, and she liked to think it over when she was by herself, and to wonder how it was that he could love her. She got down a large Bible with pictures in it, which had belonged to her father and mother, and she read over again much of the Saviour's history, and she read it now with far more delight than she used to do at school; but there were many words and things in it which she did not understand, and she laid them aside in her memory till Annie should come and make them plain to her.

She longed very much for Annie's promised visit, and hardly went out of doors, at least not far out of sight of the house, for fear she should miss her. She tidied up the cottage as well as she could, that it might look its best when she did come; and, what was still better, she made herself a little tidier. The rough hair was brushed and combed behind her ears, and her hands and face were as clean as soap and water would make them.

At length, to her great joy, on the third afternoon, as she was sitting on the door-step gazing eagerly up the lane, she saw a blue muslin dress in the distance, and she knew who was the wearer of that blue dress. Not many minutes had passed before Annie had entered the cottage, and been awkwardly, but eagerly, welcomed by Patience. The best arm-chair, which was never used except on Sundays, had been brought out of its corner for her use. Annie sat down in it, and Patience stood beside her, too shy, if not too happy, to speak, until Annie put her quite at ease again by admiring a pet canary, the greatest treasure that Patience possessed, which hung in a cage by the window. Patience willingly related the history of her little bird, and from the bird's history Annie easily led her to speak of her own; and Patience told her all that she knew about her father and mother, and a great deal about herself, and her school-days, and her troubles. It certainly seemed, from her account, that she had a great deal to bear with from many of the children of the village. "But I wouldn't mind anything," said Patience, "if I was only straight and strong, like other girls. It's so hard that I should be lame and crooked, and not able to run about, or work, as they do!" Her lip trembled, and a few tears, in spite of her efforts to hide them, ran down her cheeks.

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Annie drew her toward her, and put her arm kindly round her. "Yes, Patience," she said, in her softest tones, "it does seem hard to you, I know; and it is, indeed, a great trial for one so young as you are. But God sends you just the troubles and just the pleasures which he sees will be altogether the best for you to have. And you must not forget that there is another world besides this, Patience; and our afflictions are meant to prepare us for that by turning our thoughts to it, and by making us holier and better, and more like Jesus. But I was going to say that since God loves us so very much as to give his own dear Son to die for us, we may be quite sure that he will not send us any troubles that are not necessary, that we could do as well without."

Patience looked thoughtful, but not satisfied. "You can not exactly see, Patience, what use there can be in your lameness and weakness; but God promises in his Word that at another time he will make it quite plain to you; and he asks you till then to wait, and trust him. You can do that, dear child."

"I will try," said Patience. It would, no doubt, be a great effort to her; but it is often that to those who know much more of the ways of their heavenly Father than she could know.

"But, Patience, God does not expect us to bear the troubles which he appoints us, by ourselves, or in our own strength. We are to carry them all to Jesus, and he will help us with them, and comfort us under them. He will strengthen us to bear them, so that they will not seem half so heavy as they did at first. And when they make us sad, he feels for us. Do you know that one reason why he took upon him our nature, -- that is, why he became a child, and a man, -- was, that he might be able to feel just as we feel, and thus feel for and with us? Is it not sweet to know that? Shall I show you a verse in the New Testament which says so?" Annie opened the large printed picture-Bible, which was on the round table beside her, and turned to the seventh chapter of Hebrews, and she talked so nicely and simply about the closing verses, that Patience brightened up, and almost forgot that she was lame and crooked.

The Bible reminded Patience of some parts in it which had puzzled her, and she pointed them out to Annie, and Annie tried to show her their meaning. She had scarcely finished doing so, when a thought seemed suddenly to strike her, and she said quickly to Patience, "But if you would like to learn more about such things as these, why do you not go to the Sunday school? you would learn so much about them there."

"I don't want to go to the Sunday school," replied Patience; "my bonnet is so old and shabby; besides, the girls would stare at me."

"Oh, you must not mind that," said Annie; "it would be over in a minute if they did; and there are some of them that would, I know, be very kind to you, and be glad to see you amongst them."

Patience looked in doubt, but Annie tried to induce her to agree to her plan. Still Patience held back, till Annie happened to say that she might be in her class if she liked, and sit close beside her and then Patience at once agreed to come.

"Oh, I will come if you are sure that I may be in your class, for I did not know where I might be put, and I was afraid lest I should have to go into the little girls' class; and I don't like the teacher, -- she is so very cross."

"Stay," said Annie, with a half smiling, half reproving look; "I can not bear any thing said against another teacher, because she is my sister!"

Patience was so astonished by what she now heard, that she did not feel so much fear as she would otherwise have done. She fixed her eyes upon Annie as if she almost doubted what she said. Was it possible that she could be the sister of that tall young lady who was such a terror to her when she went to the day school, because she found such fault with her, and always seemed to be on the look-out for her wrong doings? Patience had intended, if she could summon up courage enough, to ask Annie, before she went away, that afternoon, what her name was, for she had not the least idea that she belonged to the family of Mrs. Leslie; and now she felt quite at a loss what to say.

Annie soon put an end to her confusion. "I hope you will know my sister better some day," she said; "because you and I are such good friends that I shall want you to like everybody who belongs to me. But you will have nothing to do with any one in the Sunday school but me, Patience; and I am sure we shall get on very well together."

Yes, Patience was equally sure of that; and then it was settled between them that Annie should call for her new scholar on Sunday morning; because it was not pleasant for one so shy as Patience to go in the first time by herself; and her grandmother would certainly not be dressed so early as nine o'clock. How kind it was of Annie to offer to do this! It is by such little kind ways, which do not cost any money, that we are often able to do good to others. If you wish to be useful, will you bear that in mind?

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Before she left; Annie took out of the same little basket, not another green-covered book, but some ripe strawberries, which had grown in her own garden. She knew they would be a treat to a poor child like Patience, and so they were. Patience thought she had never tasted anything more nice in all her life.

Patience felt very happy, and I am afraid a little proud, as she walked through the lanes next Sunday morning, side by side with Miss Annie Leslie; especially when Betsy Stevens, who was lolling out of her bedroom window, saw them as they went past. She did not feel so strange as she had thought in the midst of the other schoolchildren; and, after the first few trying moments were over, she forgot herself, and began to be quite interested in all that was going on. I can not tell you how pleased Miss Annie was to have her there; nor how she prayed that Patience might be one of the little lambs who are early gathered into the Saviour's fold.

It was a happy day for Patience when she went to the Sunday school; for the gentle teachings of Miss Annie, week by week, deepened the good impression which had been made upon the poor girl. The more Patience knew about Jesus and his great love; the more sorry she felt for the way in which she so often grieved him by her selfish and angry tempers, and the more she wished that she could take his yoke upon her, and learn to be meek and lowly in heart. She did try very hard to check her hasty passions, and to speak less pettishly when anything took place which "put her out," as she called it; but it is often a long struggle to conquer ourselves; and Patience got on but slowly. She was sometimes almost ready to give it all up in despair; but her kind friend, Miss Annie, was ever ready to cheer and assist her, and took such a bright, hopeful view of things that Patience would become ashamed of her own weakness, and would set off again with fresh resolves. It is a great blessing to have a true friend who will help us when we are most in want of one; and such a friend Patience had in Annie Leslie.

Ah! but Patience had a better friend even than Annie; a friend who, although we may not have another in the world, is willing to be ours. That friend was Jesus Christ, who so loved us as to give his life a ransom for sinners. What would Patience have done without him! He was always near to guide and help her; she could go to him when she met with anything that troubled her, and tell him all that was in her heart, and feel sure that he would pity her, and aid her to bear it. If she failed, as she too often did, in doing what was right, she knew that he would not send her away from his presence when she with sorrow confessed her sins. She knew he would freely forgive her, and strengthen her by his Holy Spirit for the time to come; and therefore, although she might feel ashamed, she did not feel afraid, to go to him and put her confidence in him. Was not such a friend as that worth having? Then, is he yours, dear young reader?

But other people could see that Patience was not the same girl she once was, although she was so slow to see the change herself. And this was the more marked after Patience began to act out a little piece of advice which Annie gave to her one day. I shall tell it to you, for it is not a secret; and you may possibly make as good a use of it as Patience did. I shall be very glad if you will. Annie's advice was this: "Do not think so much about yourself, Patience, but forget yourself in trying to make others happy." What a different world ours would be if everybody would only do that!

It was half-holiday again; and Patience and several other girls were amusing themselves with a colored glass toy which belonged to one of them, and which had only lately been given to her. It was quite a new toy, and all were eager to look at it.

"Now it is your turn, Patience," said Katie Ford, when she had peeped through it for some minutes.

"No, it is not," cried Betsy Stevens, seizing hold of it; "I am going to have it next."

This was very unfair of Betsy, for it had already been passed to her. Patience was angry, and she was just going to try to snatch it out of Betsy's hand, with the words, "It is my turn, and I will have it!" when she recollected the advice which Annie had given her that very morning. Her cheek was hot, and her heart beat quickly, but she said, as mildly as she could, "Never mind, Katie; let Betsy have it if she likes; I can wait till she has done with it."

Could this be Patience who spoke thus? Katie was surprised at her kind ways; and so was Betsy, for the latter knew that she had no right to have the toy a second time, before Patience had had it once; and instead of keeping it long, she gave it up to her almost directly. So Patience got it sooner than she would if she had contended for it, and did not lose her temper either. How glad she felt that she had studied Betsy's wishes rather than her own, and had thus gained the victory over "self!"

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It was a very tiny beginning, you may think, for any one to make; but great rivers take their rise from little springs, and large trees grow out of small seeds; and all the self-denial and kind deeds which showed themselves in the future life of Patience were to be traced to this first hearty effort of hers.

Patience was striving now, in her daily conduct and play with other children to please them instead of pleasing herself; and she was surprised to find what a good effect it had. She was much happier, for she was so busy attending to others that she had not time to notice whether they were neglecting her; and thus she escaped most of the jealous feelings which used to trouble her when she was ready to be offended by trifles and disposed to magnify them as much as possible. And she made her young friends happier as well as herself. They always liked to have her with them, because she was so kind and willing to oblige; and she went home one day quite delighted because she heard one little girl say to another, "Well, I shall get Patience to help me with it; she will not mind the trouble; and she looks so pleasant when you ask her to do anything for you." Patience felt that to have won such a good opinion as this quite repaid her for all her pains; and it cheered her to think that, lame and plain-looking as she was, she might be truly beloved by those around her.

But we must take a glance at Patience in her home as well as when she is amongst her playmates; for some persons who appear very loving out-of-doors are just the opposite in-doors. Her grandmother would have told you that this was not the case with Patience, but that her house was hardly like the same place since her grandchild went with Miss Annie to the Sunday school.

Her grandmother might well say that there was a great change at home; for, besides that Patience was learning to control her temper, and to be cheerful instead of cross, she had begun to help in the house-work, and to do all that she could to increase her grandmother's comfort. I will tell you what made her set about it.

One afternoon Patience felt very dull. She was not so well as usual; she could not go out, for it was raining; and she sat by herself, thinking what a poor helpless girl she was, till she began to be quite unhappy. She was doing just what Miss Annie had told her not to do, -- fixing her thoughts too much upon herself. "But how can I help it?" sighed poor Patience; "I can not forget myself in trying to make somebody happy, for there is not anybody here. Is there anything I can do for grandmother?" No, she could not recollect that there was. At that minute she looked at the empty grate. Couldn't she try to light the fire, and get the tea ready? It would be so nice for her grandmother to find it all prepared for her when she came home, wet and tired.

It was a great work for Patience to make the fire and boil the kettle, and she was a long time over it. Oh, how busy she was, and how great a matter she felt it to be! She never heeded the rain pattering on the window, nor thought how afflicted she was.

She had just finished putting the bread and butter and cups and saucers on the table when her grandmother returned. What a pleasant sight met her eyes as she came in at the door! a bright little fire burning in the grate, and the kettle boiling over it! "Why, Patience, my child," she said, "this is nice!"

From that afternoon Patience tried to be useful and busy. She found that having plenty to do made her much more contented and better tempered. She did not feel half so irritable when she was well employed. And the poor lame girl learned to keep her grandmother's cottage as neat and as clean as the squire's great house, and brightened it up both in winter and in summer with her own calm, happy-looking little face.

Patience had often been laughed at on account of her lameness by Betsy Stevens. Betsy was not altogether an unfeeling girl, but she liked to mimic anything that she thought looked funny; and she used to imitate Patience in her walk, to make others laugh. One day Betsy's foot slipped on a piece of orange-peel which had been carelessly thrown on the kitchen stairs; she fell nearly to the bottom, and her leg was broken. It was many, many weeks before she was able to go about again, and she suffered a great deal of pain, besides being confined to the house.

Then she remembered her ridicule of Patience, and thought how Patience would say she was rightly served for it. But Patience did not say any such thing; she had long since forgiven, if she had not forgotten, Betsy's unkind conduct; and she was one of the first who went in to inquire how she was, and, to tell her how sorry she felt for her. Betsy's mother kept a shop, and also took in some ironing; she was therefore unable to sit up-stairs beside Betsy, or to be much with her till the evening; and Betsy would often have felt very lonely if Patience had not kindly come in and kept her company. Patience had plenty of time to spare, and she willingly employed it in trying to cheer poor Betsy, and to soothe her restlessness. It was not always easy to do this; for, though really grateful to Patience for her constant care, Betsy was not used to be so still, so that she bore the accident very badly, and was often very peevish and discontented. But Patience, taught forbearance by her own feelings, persevered in her kind efforts, and made a very good little nurse. So the good old doctor thought who came to visit Betsy. He had often noticed the quiet, modest little girl who was so patient with Betsy and so handy in waiting upon her; and one day, as he was going out of the room, he turned to Patience, and said, very pleasantly, "Well, my little maid, and what is your name?"

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"Patience, if you please, Sir."

"Patience," said the doctor, with a smile; why, that is a capital name for you; it suits you so well!"

"Indeed, it does, Sir," cried Betsy, warmly; "Patience is exactly like her name."

Yes; Miss Annie's desire was fulfilled: THE WRONG NAME HAD BECOME THE RIGHT ONE.

Dear young reader, if your name was Patience, what would people say about it?