pressure
of her lot, becomes poor in spirit as in estate, and either vegetates
like an almost worthless weed that is carelessly trodden on by every
foot, or if by nature born a flower, in time loses her lustre, and all
her days leads the life not so much of a servant as of a slave.

Such, till she was twelve years old, had been the fate of Margaret
Burnside. Of a slender form and weak constitution, she had never been
able for much work; and thus from one discontented and harsh master and
mistress to another, she had been transferred from house to
house--always the poorest--till she came to be looked on as an
encumbrance rather than a help in any family, and thought hardly worth
her bread. Sad and sickly she sat on the braes herding the kine. It was
supposed that she was in a consumption--and as the shadow of death
seemed to lie on the neglected creature's face, a feeling something like
love was awakened towards her in the heart of pity, for which she showed
her gratitude by still attending to all household tasks with an alacrity
beyond her strength. Few doubted that she was dying--and it was plain
that she thought so herself; for the Bible, which, in her
friendlessness, she had always read more than other children, who were
too happy to reflect often on the Word of that Being from whom their
happiness flowed, was now, when leisure permitted, seldom or never out
of her hands; and in lonely places, where there was no human ear to
hearken, did the dying girl often support her heart, when quaking in
natural fears of the grave, by singing to herself hymns and psalms. But
her hour was not yet come--though by the inscrutable decrees of
Providence doomed to be hideous with almost inexpiable guilt. As for
herself--she was innocent as the linnet that sang beside her in the
broom, and innocent was she to be up to the last throbbings of her
religious heart. When the sunshine fell on the leaves of her Bible, the
orphan seemed to see in the holy words, brightening through the
radiance, assurances of forgiveness of all her sins--small sins
indeed--yet to her humble and contrite heart exceeding great--and to be
pardoned only by the intercession of Him who died for us on the tree.
Often, when clouds were in the sky, and blackness covered the Book, hope
died away from the discoloured page--and the lonely creature wept and
sobbed over the doom denounced on all who sin, and repent not--whether
in deed or in thought. And thus religion beca