It was on a Sabbath eve, when at a friend's house, we were all sitting

in the piazza, conversing about the efforts which were being made for

the poor heathen, and the number of Testaments which were being sent

to them.

"Father," said little Harriet, "do the little heathen children wish to

learn to read the New Testament?"

"O yes, my child, many of them do," said the father.

"But have they all got Testaments if they did know how to read?" "No,

my love; few of them have ever heard about the Testament, about God,

or about Jesus Christ." "Will half a dollar buy one?" said Harriet. "O

yes, my child."

"Then," said Harriet, "may I sell anything I have, if I can get the

money?" Her father told her she might.

Now, every child has some favorite toy. Harriet's was a beautiful tame

_gray_ squirrel. It would eat from her hands, attend her in her

rambles, and sleep on her pillow.

She called its name Jenny. It was taken sick, and the little girl

nursed it with care, but it at last died in her lap.

Little Harriet wept sadly about it, and her father tried to console

her, and told her not to feel so.

"Ah," said she, "you know, father, you told me that I might sell

anything I had to buy a Testament for the heathen children, and I was

going to sell my pretty squirrel to Mr. Smith, who said he would give

me half a dollar for it; but now my Jenny is dead." The Father then

put a silver dollar into Harriet's hand, and she dried her tears,

rejoicing that Jenny's death would be the means of his little daughter

having two or three Testaments instead of one.