IT was an unusually warm morning for June. But little air stirred the lilac bushes, and the chickens wallowing in the cool, moist earth beneath them, crouched down often, as though overcome by the heat.

I raised my parasol as I stepped out upon the front porch, and gathered up my dress with a listless hand, as I looked over the road which stretched out to the church, whose white spire rose above the green trees in the distance; and I wondered how I was to get over that hot hill, where not a shadow broke the glare. Such a sudden outpouring of the sun's heat seemed quite overpowering. When I entered the church, I found my collection of scholars nearly complete; but I opened the closely-shut window near, and dropped into my straight-backed chair, feeling as though there was not an atom of reserve force left in me with which to tackle my duties. It was discouraging to have such feelings to contend with when I had striven so, but an hour ago, for a prayerful, tranquil mind; and I strove to overcome it. But the children, rubbing their feet on the bare floor, nearly sent me wild, and I was glad when the opening bell called US to order. 

But I did not regain control of myself, so but that when, after the lesson was well begun, Julia Simpson, or Julia Ann, as the children called her, came in, dragging by the hand such a little mite of a brother as seemed too much to be anywhere but at home, I was annoyed. "Why can't mothers be their own nurse girls?" I thought; and I'm afraid there was the least mite of sharpness in my voice as I said, " You shouldn't bring such a baby to Sabbath-school, Julia."

"Mother said I'd got to stay and mind him then," was Julia's reply.  I made room for them, and gave the little fellow a book of pictures to keep him from talking; but of course it wasn't a minute before the book went, with a bang, on the floor. When this happened for the third time, and just as I was saying, "Now children," I took the book, and much to the child's apparent wonderment, tossed it on to the table. After this for awhile the child was determined to do the talking himself; and of course every time he gave utterance to anything, in his funny baby-fashion, a suppressed titter would break out from somewhere among the children composing the class. But at last I seemed to get a little of the child's attention. At any rate, the latter part of the exercise he sat swinging his fat legs, and crouched down in a sort of listening way, as though giving me his undivided attention. But I supposed this came from drowsiness, and at last I forgot him entirely.

When the school was closed and the children straggled out, I stumbled over "Eben," as Julia called him. He raised his great black eyes to mine, and said, in his slightly solemn, childish way, "I'll tome adain."

"Yes," I said; "and you must be a good little boy all the week."

"I'll be dood, and pray Dod," he said, nodding his head like a wise judge, and marching away.

The last thing I had striven to impress upon the children's minds had been the need of prayer for everything and at all times; and I was surprised that even so much, as seemed by the child's words, had been grasped by him. And going home, thinking over it, the breeze seemed a good deal fresher than when I went over the road before, though it was an hour nearer noon; and the way was not half so long and tiresome.

The next Sabbath I looked for little Eben, but Julia came without him, and in time the incident of his ever having come slipped from my mind. A few weeks later I stood one morning out among my late roses, clipping and tying up, and smelling of this and that half opened rose, when a "hem" caused me to turn suddenly, and I found a woman standing beside me. 

How she had opened the gate and trodden the gravel walk without my knowing it, was a mystery; but there she was, and as she did not say anything, I said, "Good morning." She answered with a nod, and then stood awkwardly twisting the fringe of her shawl between her thumb and finger. Not knowing what else to say, I asked, "Can I do anything for you?"

"Well, no that is, I only thought I'd like you to know how we'd got on the right track again."

"Ah," I said, not having the remotest idea as to who "we" were, or what ''track'' they had generally been on.

"Yes, I kinder felt as though I'd like you to know how much good you'd done us."

"I?" I said in astonishment, as I pulled off my garden gloves, and walking to the porch, pushed one of the garden chairs toward my strange visitor, taking the remaining one myself. "I do not see how that can be, when I never saw you before." 

"But you've seen Bub," and the woman laughed, and the laugh seemed to take ten years right off her age.

"Bub, who's Bub?" I asked, struggling to get hold of what the woman meant.

"Why, my Bub, Ebenezer, that Julia Ann took to Sabbath-school."

"Oh," I said, the Julia Ann letting in a little light. "You're Julia Simpson's mother? I remember little Eben's coming with her one day. Yes, yes."

"Well, you see" and the woman settled back, as though surer of her ground now "I used to mind about religion, quite a sight, when we were first married. 

But after things got going so hard with us, and it was work, work, and money always short, and the children coming along, and SO little time for anything, we kinder forgot about it; and when we didn't, there did not seem to be much chance for such things; and I used to tell Rufus he's my husband that there wasn't much time for poor folks to be religious in, and he seemed to think it was about so. 

Well, as I started to tell, the next day after Bubby went to Sabbath-school was what some people call 'blue Monday' with me. The baby'd been worrying all night.

"Eben?" I asked.

"Oh, no; you ha'n't seen my baby yet. 

She's most a year old, and a wonderful sight like her father. As I was saying, she'd kept me awake; and now there was the big washing, and the sun up so hot before I got at it; and taking it all round, it seemed as though I never could go through with it all; and after I'd rubbed a little, I just dropped into a chair with my hand on my back, saying, 'It's no sort o' use; I never can do it.'  Bub was on the floor with the baby's playthings, and I didn't suppose he was minding me one bit; but he looked up with those great eyes o' his'n, and says he, shaking his head, 

'Why don't you tell Dod so?  I thought it must be I hadn't heard him right, and so I asked, 'What did you say, Eben?' 

'I say,' he said, rising to his feet, 'why don't you tell Dod so. And not bover so about it?'  I got right up, and went about my work, but I was sort o' numb like, as though I'd got a blow. You see it was so queer like for Eben to talk like that. I tried to move about lively, and get myself free, but I couldn't, and at last I went into the bedroom, where baby was in bed asleep, and, shutting the door, I did just tell the Lord all about it, just how tired I was, and how hard everything was going, and how little strength I had, and asked him to get me through the day the best he could; and when I went back to the kitchen, my heart was as light as a feather, and I broke right out singing, as though I was a girl. But I ha'n't got to the best of it," she continued, as I moved a little, to get my handkerchief. "If you'll believe me, as I was a-takin out the first boiling, who should come in but Rufus, and, says he, 'I didn't have quite the right lumber I wanted for the job, so I thought 't was so late I'd come home and help a bit, and not go after it till noon. Now, I don't believe Rufus had done such a thing as that afore since the first year we was married, and what do you suppose could have put it into his head unless" Mrs. Simpson hesitated, as though I might not quite agree with her, I thought. So I hastened to say, "Unless the Lord put it into his heart. Of course you have a perfect right to think it in direct answer to prayer."

"Well, so it seemed to me and Rufus," said Mrs. Simpson, pulling her shawl up around her; "and you don't know what a comfort it has been to us, and we've just taken a new start; and it's wonderful how easy things do go now. And when I went by this morning, and saw you a-standing out in the garden, I felt as though I'd like you to know what a sight of good what Bubby brought home did for us."

"Well. I'm sure, Mrs. Simpson," I said, shaking her hand warmly, "it does help me to go on with the little ones. Sometimes it seems as though I couldn't get anything done up small enough for them to take."

"Don't you ever think that again, for it's wonderful how these little folks do manage to get hold of things;" and Mrs. Simpson, with another shake of the hand, walked away.

How do you think I felt after she was gone? I can't tell you exactly how, but I know I felt a good deal as though I ought to ask somebody's pardon, and I went down before God, in that little back parlor of mine, for a long time; and the next Sabbath, when Julia brought in Eben, gay in a new suit of blue waterproof, with brass buttons, I gave him the very best seat there was; and all that lesson time I tried to strip my talk free from big words, so that even the smallest should have something to carry home.—