JERRY'S TRIAL.

WHEN Ellen went upstairs to make the beds, she went first of all to a little room at the head of the stairs, known as Jerry's room. She lifted the latch with a careful hand, and entered with a light step.

The young sufferer she feared to disturb was not asleep, however, but greeted her with the words:

"Oh, Ellen! at last! I began to think you were not coming to see me this morning."

"Oh, Jerry, you know I should not fail to come," replied Ellen, as she kissed her little brother, all the dearer on account of the affliction which made him a helpless invalid.

It was sad to look upon Jerry's tiny, wasted face, almost as white as the pillow upon which it rested, and wearing such a pathetic expression of suffering. The blue veins so plainly visible on his temples, the dark circles beneath the sad eyes, the tremulous movement of the mouth, all bore witness to the pain he had so frequently to endure. Yet the smile with which he welcomed his sister was very sweet, and his tones more cheerful than one could have expected.

He lay on a low couch drawn close to the open window, through which he could gaze at the green meadows and orchards which surrounded the house, and watch the cows going to and fro at milking-time, or the haymakers at their work, and catch many of the pleasant sights and sounds which a farm affords. It was a relief to him to be able thus to look upon the outer world, for he was seldom well enough to leave his couch, and there was little hope that he would ever move about like other children.

All had been done that could be done to alleviate the sadness of his life, and, in spite of its rough, uneven floor and sloping ceilings, his little room was a pleasant place. Any pictures that found their way to the house were nailed upon the walls to gladden Jerry's eyes. The rose-tree which grew luxuriantly outside was carefully trained about the window, that Jerry might enjoy the perfume of its blossoms. And a jar of flowers invariably stood beside his bed whenever there were any to be had.

Such books as the home could boast were always to be found in Jerry's room, for he was a great reader. And ever since the day, more than three years ago, when, in his seventh year, a sudden fall from the hay-loft had wrought terrible mischief to his spine, books had been his loved companions.

Not so dear, however, as his brothers and sisters, Ellen, Tom, and Lucy, older than himself, and the little ones that followed, who ever received a warm welcome from him, if he were well enough to see them.

Sometimes, however, on his bad days, when the paroxysms of pain were agonising, he could endure the presence of no one save his mother, whose sympathy was so true and tried.

Books were not the only means of diversion which Jerry possessed. When his head ached with reading, he could amuse himself with straw-plaiting. In the part of England in which the Mansfields lived, poor people used to devote their leisure to this employment, and found it remunerative. But of late years, for sundry reasons, this trade has declined, and although Jerry plaited many a yard of straw, he earned very little by it. That little, however, was acceptable, and supplied him with many comforts which he must otherwise have lacked. For Joseph Mansfield's family was longer than his purse, and he could not afford to keep any of his children in idleness.

He paid a heavy rent for the few acres of land which he farmed, and was frequently in arrears with it. When a bad season came, or any of the cattle died, his face grew long, and he talked about ruin, whilst his wife looked more pale and worried than ever.

The elder children knew that their parents expected them to work for themselves as soon as they were old enough to do so, and Ellen was especially anxious to be earning her own living. There was no need for her to leave home in search of employment, had she been willing to perform the work that lay to hand, for the management of the house and dairy, and the care of so many little ones, with all the washing and mending their clothes required, was more than Mrs. Mansfield could accomplish unaided.

But, as we have said, Ellen disliked these household tasks, and always gave her assistance grudgingly. Being handy with her needle, she had set her heart on becoming a dressmaker. And, after trying long to dissuade her from this purpose, her mother had, in compliance with her wishes, written to her aunt, who was a dressmaker at Charmouth, a large seaport about thirty miles distant from Ellen's home, to ask her to take her niece as an apprentice. It was the answer to this letter that Ellen was so eagerly expecting.

"What has kept you so long this morning, Nell?" her little brother inquired as she seated herself by his side.

"Nothing particular, Jerry. I wasted my time in watching for the postman. All in vain, however, for he brought no letter from Aunt Matilda."

Jerry's face clouded at these words.

"I can't bear to think of your going away from home, Nelly," he said.

"I shall be sorry to leave you all, but very glad for other reasons to go," replied Ellen.

"I can't think what mother will do without you," said Jerry. "She will miss you dreadfully. She is busy enough as it is, but she will have to work harder than ever when you are gone."

Ellen coloured, and bit her lip in momentary annoyance. She did not like to be reminded of such considerations as Jerry's words suggested.

"There is Lucy to help mother," she said.

"Oh yes. Lucy can do a good deal, I know," returned Jerry. "But not all that you can, I should think."

"I hope I shall get a holiday sometimes, and come home to see you all," remarked Ellen, anxious to change the conversation. "And when I've learnt my trade, Jerry, I'll settle somewhere near here, and you shall come and live with me. I'll take such good care of you, and buy you lots of books."

Jerry smiled rather sadly, and shook his head. "I'm afraid that will never be, Nelly. Sometimes I think I shall have to lie in this room the whole of my life; and, oh, I do begin to feel so tired of it!"

"I daresay you do," said his sister, tenderly, "and you feel worse than usual this morning after your bad night. But you'll be better in an hour or two's time, dear."

Jerry sighed deeply, and, hoping to divert his thoughts, Ellen began to tell him about the stranger who was to preach that evening in Farmer Holroyd's barn.

"Oh dear! How I wish I could go and hear him," he exclaimed.

"I wish you could," said Ellen, thinking with sorrow how impossible it was for him to do so.

"Shall you go, Nelly?" he asked.

"I don't know," answered Ellen.

"Oh, Ellen! I wish you would go," he said, "for then you would be able to tell me what he said. You can't think how I long to know about some things."

"What things, Jerry?" asked Ellen, in surprise.

"The things that I read of in the Bible, Nelly, about the Lord Jesus, and how He healed poor sick people. I often wonder if there was any one in the crowds that came to Him as helpless as I."

"There was the man with the palsy," suggested Ellen.

"Yes, he could not move any better than I can," the boy replied. "His friends carried him on his bed to Jesus. Oh, Nelly! how I wish Jesus were on the earth now, for then perhaps He would make me whole. Though I might not be able to get to Him, after all."

"We would carry you to Him, if we possibly could, Jerry," said his sister.

"Yes, I know you would," he replied, with a smile; "but it's of no use thinking of it. Yet when I feel so weary of lying here, I do wish I might be made whole as those people were. I suppose God could make me well now if He liked—couldn't He, Nelly? Do you think, if I prayed very hard to Him, He would?"

"I don't know," replied Ellen doubtfully; "but I think I should try if I were you, Jerry."

The boy lay silent for a while, his contracted brow showing that he was engaged in earnest thought.

Presently, he roused himself and said, "You will go to-night, Nelly?"

"Yes, Jerry," Ellen replied.

"And you will tell me all about it when you come back?"

"Yes, I'll be sure to, Jerry."