while, until she
was made ready to live with me as my own child?'

The young lady paused for a few minutes, while Stephen pictured to
himself the grand palace, and little Nan being made fit to live in it;
and when at last he raised his brown eyes to hers, bright with the
pleasant thought, she went on in a quiet, reverential tone:

'Perhaps we could not understand any of the things of heaven, so our
Father which is in heaven sends us to school here; we are learning
lessons all our life long. There is not a single trouble that comes to us
but it is to teach us the meaning of something we shall meet with there.
We should not be happy to hear the angels singing a song which we could
not understand, because we had missed our lessons down here.'

'Oh, Miss Anne,' cried Stephen, 'I feel as if I could bear anything when
I think of that! Only I wish I was as strong as an angel.'

'Patience is better than strength,' said Miss Anne, in a tone as if she
were speaking to herself: 'patiently to bear the will of God, and
patiently to keep His commandments, is greater and more glorious than the
strength of an angel.'

'Black Thompson was so kind to me all to-day,' said Stephen, sighing;
'and now he'll be ten times worse if I go back from telling him where the
black game is.'

'You must do right,' replied Miss Anne, with a glance that brought back
true courage to the boy's heart; 'and remember that "blessed are they
which are persecuted for righteousness' sake, for theirs is the kingdom
of heaven." Now, good-night, Stephen. Go and bury poor Snip while there
is daylight, in some quiet place where you can go and think and read and
play sometimes.'

Stephen returned to the hut for a spade, and then went, with a strange
blending of grief and gladness, to the place where he had left his poor
dog. He chose a solitary yew tree on the hill for the burial ground, and
dug as deep a grave as he could among the far-spreading roots. It was
strange, only such things do happen now and then, that while he was
working away hard and fast, with the dead dog lying by under the trunk of
the yew tree, the gamekeeper himself passed that way. He had been in a
terrible temper all day, for he had discovered the mischief done down in
the fir-coppice, and the loss of his carefully-preserved covey. The sight
of Stephen and dead Snip irritated him; though a feeling of shame crept
over him as he saw how tear-stained the boy's face was.

'Mr. Jones,' said Ste