The sisters sat by the wayside one evening, after a hard day's toil, their eyes lifted to the stars, which seemed to look lovingly on them.

They sat without words, while each possessed the same unspoken wish. They both longed for their sister, who at that moment was thinking earnestly of them.

Faith glanced from the stars to the scarcely less brilliant eyes of Hope, and a few tears fell over her face. Even Hope sighed, and almost wished herself back to her starry home with her father.

"Are you sorry, Hope, that you came to earth?" asked Faith, tenderly.

"No: but I was thinking--"

"I know your thought: it must be the same as my own," said Faith.

"Yes, our sister--" Hope ventured thus far.

"Charity come too." Faith finished the sentence.

"Just my wish," said Hope, rejoiced to find they had the same desire.

"I see," said Faith, "that we are all needed here to make our work complete," while the brilliant eyes of Hope spoke more than words.

"I have felt for a long time," answered Hope, "that another element, softer, sweeter, and finer than ours, was needful for the people."

"Do you suppose that father would spare Charity, too?" asked Hope of her sister.

"I know he would, if convinced that earth's people would receive her."

"Why, Faith, you speak with such confidence!"

"Because I know how good our father is, as you do yourself, Hope. If needed, she will come," said Faith, trustingly, thinking of her own experience that lonely night.

"Charity is so delicate," said Hope, a little doubtfully, "I do not quite see how she could endure this cold clime."

"She could not without our presence to sustain her," answered Faith.

"But, with us to help her, she could; for we can all live wherever we are called to do the work of our father."

"Let us lift the voices of our souls," said Hope; and they offered a silent prayer for their sister.

That night, in his abode of peace and comfort, the father walked to and fro; for the voices of his children on the earth, pleading for their sister, had reached him.

It was not without a struggle that he called the only remaining child to his side to look upon her for the last time for many years.

"It must be," he said, "and then will my sacrifice be perfect; and from perfect sacrifice must fullness of good come forth. Faith alone could not perfect the work; Hope's added brightness was not all that was needed.

Charity must be added." And he drew the fair, frail form to his side, and told her to go for her mantle.

He enveloped her slight figure in the spotless garment, and, placing her in the care of Zephyr, the gentle west wind, who was always faithful to her charges, bade her depart, with his prayers and blessings.

Zephyr was very tender of her charge, and, after what seemed a long journey to Charity, she laid her on a soft bed of moss in a pleasant woodland, where her sisters were gathering flowers.

She might have lain there some time had not Faith's eyes discovered her coming through the clouds.

Full and joyous was the meeting of the three; and when the sun went to rest they sought shelter among the people.

With the uplifted eyes of Faith, the clear, soul-speaking face of Hope, and the tender, forgiving words of Charity, their united force was great.

Some of the people at first refused to admit the last comer into their dwellings.

"Faith, with her lovely eyes, and Hope, with her bright ways, are good enough," they said; "and why need they bring this pale, fragile one to earth?"

But when once she had spoken, either in council or rebuke, to her listeners, there was melody and richness in her tones: such an awakening of their souls' finer powers that they ever after bade her welcome.

Her strength lay in her gentleness. She always went when called for, but never obtruded herself on others. Very often her sisters were invited to the feast of the people without her. It took time for her quality to be known: she was so still and silent. Her step, too, was noiseless, and her delicate feet left no prints where she trod.

Before she grew into favor with the people they used to watch for her footprints to see whose guest she had been; but they found no traces, and learned to entertain her after a long time for the lovely qualities which she possessed.

They walk the earth now, each loved and entertained by many, while some sit in the shadows, and know not that earth has the angels of Faith, Hope, and Charity to bless them.

XVII.

GOING FORTH.

A wise parent sent his children to a distant country to learn the lessons of life which experience alone can teach. Before their departure he called them to him, and, after providing them liberally with means, told them that at their return he would listen to their several experiences; at the same time telling them to use the means which he had given them well--neither to h.o.a.rd, nor spend them unwisely; above all, not to bring them back in their original form, but a full equivalent therefore, either in spiritual or material things.

A year had scarcely pa.s.sed, when, as the father sat looking at the western sky, the youngest son came running breathlessly up the path.

"So soon returned?" asked his father--which caused a look of disappointment to pa.s.s over the face of the youth; and his words were shaded with regret as he replied, "I thought you would be glad to see me, and would rejoice that I got through so quickly."

"Not so, my son," replied the father. "You cannot, in the brief time you have been absent, have performed many, if any, deeds of goodness compared with what you might have done by tarrying longer; and your gold--you surely cannot have used it all in so brief a period."

"Why, I've brought all the money back you gave me, father. You see, I got through without its costing me a penny."

"It grieves me more than all, my son, that you should go through any country and return no equivalent for deeds and kindness given. Rest awhile, and in a few days return to the land and the people I sent you among, and come not back again to me till every farthing is wisely spent."

The youth murmured within himself, but dared not reply. A few days later he departed, to go over the same ground and do the work he had neglected for the sake of a speedy return.

At the end of the second year another returned, looking sad and dispirited.

"Thou hast soon returned, my son," said the father. "Is thy work done in so brief a period?"

The youth hung his head, and answered slowly, "I was so weary, father.

I saw so much sorrow among those people, I longed to come home where all is rest and peace. Surely, I was right in that, was I not?"

"Far from it, my child. If there was much sorrow there, that was the very reason why you should have remained. Dost thou not remember those lines I have so often quoted,--