lovely dishes away amongst people like that anyway; so sometimes I
think I'll just marry Charles Stuart when I get big."

Mother MacAllister busied herself arranging the dishes on the top shelf
of the cupboard. Her twinkling eyes showed not the slightest
resentment that her son should be chosen only as an alternative to
savages and boa constrictors.

"Well, well," she said at last, very gently, "you and Charles Stuart
would be too young to be thinking of such things for a wee while,
lovey. But, indeed, it's Mother MacAllister prays every day that you
may both be led to serve the dear Master no matter where He places you.
Eh, eh, yes indeed, my lassie."

Elizabeth swung her dish-towel slowly, standing with eyes fixed on the
pink and gold stretch of snow that led up to the glory of the skies
above the Long Hill.

"I'm going to try when I grow big," she whispered.

"But you don't need to be waiting for that, little Lizzie," said Mother
MacAllister, and seeing this was an opportunity for a lesson, added,
"Come and we will be sitting down for a rest now, until the boys come
in."

The dishes were all away, the oil-cloth covered table was wiped
spotlessly clean and the shining milkpans were laid out upon it. There
was nothing more to be done until Charles Stuart and Long Pete Fowler
came in with the milk. So Mother MacAllister sat down in the old
rocker by the sun-flooded window with her knitting, and Elizabeth sat
on an old milking-stool at her feet. And there in the midst of the
golden glow reflected from the skies, while one pale star far above in
the delicate green kept watch over the dying day, there the little girl
was given a new vision of One who, though He was rich, yet for
Elizabeth's sake became poor, who, though He stretched out those
shining heavens as a curtain, and made the glowing earth His footstool,
had lived amongst men and for thirty-three beautiful years had
performed their humblest tasks.

"Run and bring the Book, Lizzie," Mother MacAllister said at last, "and
we'll jist be readin' a word or two about Him."

Elizabeth had not far to run. The old Bible, with the edges of its
leaves all brown and ragged--and most brown and ragged where the
well-read psalms lay--was always on the farthest window-sill with
Father MacAllister's glasses beside it. She brought it, and, sitting
again at Mother MacAllister's feet, heard story after story of those
acts of love and gracious kindness that had made H