one, with peaks nearer to the sky than others, you have
all the more need for the necessary helps for ascent."

"Father is always delightful when he is allegorical," Polly had once
said.

Now she threw back her head, looked full into his dearly-loved face,
clasped his hands tightly in both her own, and said with tears filling
her eyes, "I am glad you are going to teach me through a kind of story,
and I think I know what you mean by my trying to climb the highest
mountain. I always did long to do whatever I did a little better than
any one else."

"Exactly so, Polly; go on wishing that. Still try to climb the highest
mountain, only take with you humility instead of self-confidence, and
then, child, you will succeed, for you will be very glad to avail
yourself of the necessary helps."

"The helps? What are they, father? I partly know what you mean, but I am
not sure that I quite know."

"Oh, yes, you quite know. You have known ever since you knelt at your
mother's knee, and whispered your prayers all the better to God because
she was listening too. But I will explain myself by the commonest of
illustrations. A shepherd wanted to rescue one of his flock from a most
perilous situation. The straying sheep had come to a ledge of rock, from
where it could not move either backwards or forwards. It had climbed up
thousands of feet. How was the shepherd to get it? There was one way.
His friends went by another road to the top of the mountain. From there
they threw down ropes, which he bound firmly round him, and then they
drew him slowly up. He reached the ledge, he rescued the sheep, and it
was saved. He could have done nothing without the ropes. So you, too,
Polly, can do nothing worthy; you can never climb your high mountain
without the aid of that prayer which links you to your Father in heaven.
Do you understand?"

"Yes, I understand," said Polly; "I see. I won't housekeep any more for
the present, father."

"You had better not, dear; you have plenty of talent for this, as well
as for anything else you like to undertake, but you lack experience now,
and discretion. It was just all this, and that self-confidence which I
alluded to just now, which got my little girl into all this trouble, and
caused Aunt Maria to think very badly of her. Aunt Maria has gone, so we
will say nothing about her just at present. I may be a foolish old
father, Polly, but I own I have a great desire to keep my children to
myself just now. S