Читать книгу The Haven Children; or, Frolics at the Funny Old House on Funny Street онлайн

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“‘Perhaps you are right, Daisy. Our greatest trials, if borne meekly for the dear Lord’s sake, may become our greatest blessings. In every pain or trouble we may hear God telling us of His love for us.’”

“Say that again, Sister Daisy,” whispered little Bear; “that about pain and trouble, and sit a little closer, please.”

“There was a picture of St. Lawrence, side by side with St. Stephen. They were such great friends, and he was burned to death on hot irons because he loved the Lord so dearly. There were pictures of St. Peter and Moses, and David too. I liked so much to look at them, and Aunt Emma said Hugh should take you all up there to see them after the service.”

“Oh, goody, goody,” began little Jack, but Artie clapped his hands over his mouth, and caught his flying feet, that his sister’s story might not be interrupted.

“There was one window in the church where a woman was giving clothes and bread to poor people. It was in memory of a dear, good lady, whom everybody loved, for she spent her whole life in visiting the sick and poor, and doing kind deeds and saying comforting words. The tears stood in Aunt Emma’s eyes as she looked at that window, for she had known and loved the gentle lady, and she told me that some of those very poor people would still walk miles to visit her grave, and then she said, ‘God grant, little daughter, that you may grow to be such a lovely, Christian woman. You must begin by faithfully doing, with God’s help, the little every-day duties nearest you.’ Then, oh! there were lovely windows of little children, and one you must surely look at, for a dear little girl, no bigger than Rosie, is kneeling at Christ’s feet. She has lain down her cross there, which means some trouble or pain she had patiently borne, and the dear Lord was holding out for reward a lovely crown for her head. Then there was a city, and the moon was rising over it, and a white angel was going up into the moonlit sky, carrying, so tenderly, a little child.”