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“If I could be sure,” he said, looking at me, “that you only wish to do a kind thing.”

I got more angry and rude.

“Perhaps you think I want to kill them,” I said.

He did not answer, but taking both my hands in his, said, gravely, “Tell me, my child, which do you wish most–to be kind to these poor little birds? or to have the honour and glory of having them, and bringing them up?”

“To be kind to them,” said I, getting very red. “I don’t want any honour and glory,” and I felt ready to cry.

“Well, well,” he said, smiling; “then I know you will believe me when I tell you that the kindest thing you can do for these little birds is to leave them where they are. And if you like, you can come and sit here every day till they are able to fly, and keep watch over the nest, that no naughty boy may come near it–the curate, for instance!” and he pulled a funny face. “That will be very kind.”

“But they will never know, and I want them to like me,” said I.

“I thought you only wanted to be kind,” he answered. And then he began to talk very gently about different sorts of kindness, and that if I wished to be kind like a Christian, I must be kind without hoping for any reward, whether gratitude or anything else. He told me that the best followers of Jesus in all times had tried hard to do everything, however small, simply for GOD’s sake, and to put themselves away. That they often began even their letters, etc., with such words, as, “Glory to GOD,” to remind themselves that everything they did, to be perfect, must be done to GOD, and GOD alone. And that in doing good kind things even, they were afraid lest, though the thing was right, the wish to do it might have come from conceit or presumption.

“This self-devotion,” he added, “is the very highest Christian life, and seems, I dare say, very hard for you even to understand, and much more so to put in practice. But we must all try for it in the best way we can, little woman; and for those who by GOD’s grace really practised it, it was almost as impossible to be downcast or disappointed as if they were already in Heaven. They wished for nothing to happen to themselves but GOD’s will; they did nothing but for GOD’s glory. And so a very good bishop says, ‘I have my end, whether I succeed or am disappointed.’ So you will have your end, my child, in being kind to these little birds in the right way, and denying yourself, whether they know you or not.”

I could not have understood all he said; but I am afraid I did not try to understand what I might have done; however, I said no more, and stood silent, while he comforted me with the promise of a new flower for my garden, called “hen and chickens,” which he said I was to take care of instead of the little blackbirds.

When he was gone I went back to the holly-bush, and stood gazing at the nest, and nursing angry thoughts in my heart. “What a preach,” I thought, “about nothing! as if there could be any conceit and presumption in taking care of three poor little birds! The curate must forget that I was growing into a big girl; and as to not knowing how to feed them, I knew as well as he did that birds lived upon worms, and liked bread-crumbs.” And so thinking wrong ended (as it almost always does) in doing wrong: and I took the three little blackbirds out of the nest, popped them into my pocket-handkerchief, and ran home. And I took some trouble to keep them out of everyone’s sight–even out of my mother’s; for I did not want to hear any more “grown-up” opinions on the matter.