queried Jack.

"Yes, I think so. It is a beautiful thought, I must confess, and might
be all right in a large, rich Sunday school; but in a mission school
like ours I am sure it will be a failure. It will end in our losing
our scholars. I don't believe in taking up new ideas without
considering whether they are adapted to our needs or not. But please,
dear folkses, don't let us say anything more about it," pleaded
Marcia, and so the subject was dropped.

That evening as Jack Thornton bade his cousin good-bye, he placed in
her hand a little package, saying: "I am so sorry, Marcia, that I
can't be here for your birthday, but here is my remembrance. Now don't
you dare open it before Tuesday, and, dear, you may be sure it is a
'white gift,' and may you have a 'white birthday'." And before she
could say a word, he had opened the door, and was gone.

Touched by his thoughtful gift and his words, she said to herself: "A
'white birthday!' I always have perfectly beautiful birthdays." And so
she did; for she was always looking out for other people's birthdays,
and making much of them; and so she always got the gospel measure:
"Give, and it shall be given unto you; good measure, pressed down, and
shaken together, and running over, shall man give into your bosom."

But these thoughts were crowded out by the pressure of things to be
done--father and mother had gone into the country to visit a sick
friend, and the younger brothers and sisters surrounded her and
clamored for songs and Bible stories, and as she was a good older
sister she devoted herself to them until their bedtime. Then, turning
out the lights, she sat down in an easy chair before the library