IN the house where I was once staying, there lived a little lame girl. Her name was Annie. Often did I pity her as I saw her sitting by the window looking at the other children on the play-ground.

Sometimes she was sick, too and could not even be at the window. At last spring came, and the little girl seemed better. "Now," thought I,

"would it not be well to try and comfort this child in some way?" So I carried her a few oranges and candies, and read her a pretty book; but still the cloud did not leave her brow.

"Why are you so sad, Annie?" said I, one day.

"Oh, sir," she replied, "I can't see why God should afflict me so, and yet give the other children so much happiness. If I only knew that God is not angry with me, I would not care so much."  That day was a very pleasant one, so I asked the little girl to go with me to a sculptor's room near by. Here were a great many blocks of marble. Marble, you know, is a very hard stone, often white. A sculptor is one who carves beautiful images out of it. Annie and I watched him with great interest. At last I pointed to a piece of marble rather dark and rough. "Do you like the looks of that?" said I to her.

"Oh, no," replied the child; "Why did they bring such an ugly block here?"

"That piece," said the gentleman, "I take in hand tomorrow."

So the next day Annie and I went again to see him. He spent the most of that day in cutting off the rough places. Day by day we watched him, and day by day the block became more attractive. His sharp chisel cut in here and there and everywhere.

We both thought, "If that stone were only alive, how it would suffer!  "At last one day we received an invitation to visit him again. "I have something to show to Annie, said he. So speaking, he drew aside a thin white veil, and behold! A lovely image of an angel had been made out of the rough stone. Annie almost cried with joy when she saw it.

"Now, my child." said I, "did the sculptor hate the poor ugly piece of marble which we saw one day?"

"Oh, no," said she, "he loved it."

"So," said I, " my little girl, does God love us when he cuts us with sharp trouble and sickness. He is fitting us for his kingdom. Let us only trust him. All will be well."

"Now," said Annie, " I see that God does not hate me, but that he has some good purpose in view."