IT is a trite saying, and an unique one, that there is "a skeletonin every house." That every form however erect, that every facehowever smiling, covers some secret malady of mind that no physiciancan cure. This may be true, and undoubtedly is; but we contend that,as everything has its opposite, there is also an angel in everyhouse. No matter how fallen the inmates, how depressing theircircumstances, there is an angel there to pity or to cheer. It maybe in the presence of a wrinkled body, treading the downward path tothe grave. Or, perhaps, in a cheerful spirit looking upon the illsof life as so many steps toward heaven, if only bravely overcome,and mounted with sinless feet.
We knew such an angel once, and it was a drunkard's child. On everyside wherever she moved she saw only misery and degradation, and yetshe did not fall. Her father was brutal, and her mother discouraged,and her home thoroughly comfortless. But she struggled along withangel endurance, bearing with an almost saintly patience theinfirmities of him who gave her existence, and then hourlyembittered it. Night after night, at the hours of ten, twelve, andeven one, barefoot, ragged, shawlless, and bonnetless, has she beento the den of the drunkard, and gone staggering home with her armaround her father. Many a time has her flesh been blue with the markof his hand when she has stepped in between her helpless mother andviolence. Many a time has she sat upon the cold curbstone with hishead in her lap; many a time known how bitter it was to cry forhunger, when the money that should have bought bread was spent forrum.
And the patience that the angel wrought with made her young faceshine, so that, though never acknowledged in the courts of thisworld, in the kingdom of heaven she was waited for by assembledhosts of spirits, and the crown of martyrdom ready, lay waiting forher young brow.
And she was a martyr. Her gentle spirit went up from at couch ofanguish--anguish brought on by ill-usage and neglect. And never tillthen did the father recognise the angel in the child; never tillthen did his manhood arise from the dust of its dishonour. From herhumble grave, he went away to steep his resolves for the better inbitter tears; and he will tell you to-day, how the memory of hermuch-enduring life keeps him from the bowl: how he goes sometimesand stands where her patient hands have held him, while her cheekcrimsoned at the sneers of those who scoffed at the drunkard'schild.
Search for the angels in your households, and cherish them whilethey are among you. It may be that all unconsciously you frown uponthem, when a smile would lead you to a knowledge of their exceedingworth. They may be among the least cared for, most despised; butwhen they are gone with their silent influence, then will you mournfor them as for a jewel of great worth.
THE END.
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