thing--though I dare say I made more blunders than I knew. Your mother
had been used to that way of living, and it was no show in her as it was
in me. Then I was proud of my library and the rare books in it. I
delighted in showing them, and talking over the rarity of this edition,
the tallness of that copy, the binding, and such-like follies. And where
was the wonder, seeing I served religion so much in the same
way--descanting upon the needlework that clothed the king's daughter,
instead of her inward glory! I do not say always, for I had my better
times. But how often have I not insisted on the mint and anise and
cummin, and forgotten the judgment, mercy and faith! How many sermons
have I not preached about the latchets of Christ's shoes, when I might
have been talking about Christ himself! But now I do not want a good
house to make a show with any more: I want to be hospitable. I don't
call giving dinners being hospitable. I would have my house a
hiding-place from the wind, a covert from the tempest. That would be to
be hospitable. Ah! if your mother were with us, my child! But you will
be my little wife, as you have been for so many years now.--God keeps
open house; I should like to keep open house.--I wonder does any body
ever preach hospitality as a Christian duty?"

"I hope you won't keep a butler, and set up for grand, father," said
Dorothy.

"Indeed I will not, my child. I would not run the risk of postponing the
pleasure of the Lord to that of inhospitable servants. I will look to
you to keep a warm, comfortable, welcoming house, and such servants only
as shall be hospitable in heart and behavior, and make no difference
between the poor and the rich."

"I can't feel that any body is poor," said Dorothy, after a pause,
"except those that can't be sure of God.--They are so poor!" she added.

"You are right, my child!" returned her father. "It was not my
poverty--it was not being sure of God that crushed me.--How long is it
since I was poor, Dorothy?"

"Two days, father--not two till to-morrow morning."

"It looks to me two centuries. My mind is at ease, and I have not paid a
debt yet! How vile of me to want the money in my own hand, and not be
content it should be in God's pocket, to come out just as it was wanted!
Alas! I have more faith in my uncle's leavings than in my Father's
generosity! But I must not forget gratitude in shame. Come, my child--no
one can see us--let us kneel down here on the grass