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How much real good could yet be done in this old, full, struggling world of ours, where so many among us have need of help, if each in his or her small circle could manage just not to leave undone some of the things that should be done. Little more is wanting to effect this than the will, or perhaps the mere suggestion. A high influence may at a time confer a considerable benefit; but very humble means, systematically exerted, even during a comparatively short season, will certainly relieve a load of misery.

In a small village towards the west of England, there dwelt, some years ago, two maiden gentlewomen, sisters, the daughters of the deceased rector of the parish. Their father had early in life entered upon his duties in this retired locality, contentedly abiding there where fate had placed him, each passing year increasing his interest in the charge which engrossed all his energies. His moderate stipend, assisted by a small private fortune, sufficed for his quiet tastes, and for the few charities required by his flock; it also enabled him to rear a large family respectably, and to start them creditably on their working way.

There was no railway near this village—even the Queen's highway was at some distance. Fields, meadows, a shady lane, a brook, and the Welsh mountains for a background, formed the picture of beauty that attracted the stranger. There was hardly what could be called a street. The cottages were clustered upon the side of the wooded bank above the stream, shrouded in gardens of apple-trees; but there was space near the foot of the hill for a green of rather handsome size, with a plane-tree in the middle of it, and a few small shops along one side. Opposite the shops was the inn, the doctor's house, the market-house, and a public reading-room; and a bylane led from the green up towards the church—an old, low-walled, steep-roofed building, with a square, dumpy tower, in which hung a peal of bells, and where was placed a large, round, clumsy window. A clump of hardwood trees enclosed the upper end of the church-yard, and extended to the back of the rector's garden, quite concealing his many-gabled dwelling. In a still, summer evening, the brook could be heard from the parlour windows of the rectory, dancing merrily along to its own music; and at those less pleasant seasons when the foliage was scanty, it could be seen here and there between the boles of the trees, sparkling in the sunshine as it rippled on, while glimpses of the rich plain beyond added to the harmony of the prospect.

The society of the village and its immediate neighbourhood was of a humble kind—neither the rich nor the great were members of it; yet there were wisdom, and prudence, and talent, and good faith to be found in this little community, where all inclined to live as brethren, kindly together. It was not a bad school this for the young to grow up in. The rector's family had here been trained; and when they grew to rise beyond it, and then passed out upon the wider world, those of them that were again heard of in their birthplace, did no discredit to its name: and all passed out, all but two—our two sisters. It is said adversity must at some time reach us all: it had been late in visiting them, for they had passed a happy youth in that quiet parsonage. At last, sorrow came, and they were left alone, the two extremes of the chain which had bound the little household together—all the intermediate links had broken; and when, upon their father's death, they had to quit their long-loved home, they found themselves verging upon old age, in circumstances that natures less strictly disciplined would have felt to have been at the least dreary. The younger sister was slightly deformed, and very delicate; the elder, though still an active woman, was quite beyond the middle of life; the income of the two, just L.30—no great elements these of either usefulness or happiness. Let us see, then, what was made of them. Some relations pressed the sisters to share their distant home, but they would not leave the village. They felt as if their work lay there. The friends they knew best were all around them; the occupations they had been used to still remained to them; the memory of all they had loved there clung to them, in the old haunts so doubly dear to the bereaved who bear affliction patiently. So they moved only to a cottage a little higher up the hill, yet within view of the church, and of the dear old house, with its garden, sheltering wood, and pleasant rivulet; and there they lived in comfort, with enough to use and much to spare, their cruse never failing them when wanted. It was a real cottage, which a labourer had left: there was no ornament about it till they added some. Rude and unfashioned did this low-thatched cabin pass to them; it was their own hands, with very little help from their light purse, which made of a mere hovel the prettiest of rural dwellings—her own hands, indeed; for Sister Anne alone was the working-bee. Sister Catherine helped by hints and smiles, and by her nimble needle; but for out-of-doors labour she had not strength. Sister Anne nailed up the trellised porch, over which gay creepers were in time to grow. Sister Anne laid out the beds of flowers, protected by a low paling from the sheep which pastured on the downs. She planned the tidy bit of garden on one side, and the little yard behind, where pig and poultry throve; but Sister Catherine watched the bee-hives near the hawthorn hedge, and plied her busy fingers by the hour to decorate the inside of their pretty cottage. They almost acted man and wife in the division of their employments, and with the best effect.

It would have astonished any one unaccustomed to the few wants of simple tastes, and to the many small gains from various trifling produce which careful industry alone can accumulate, to see the plenty consequent on skill, order, and neatness. The happiness was a joy apart, only to be felt by the sort of poetic mind of the truly benevolent, for it depended not on luxury, or even comfort, or any purely selfish feeling. It sprang from warm hearts directed by clear heads, invigorated by religious feelings, and nourished by country tastes, softened and elevated by the trials of life, till devotion to their kind became the one intention of their being; for it is as Sisters of Charity we introduce our heroines to our readers, one of a wide class in our reformed church, who, unshackled by vows, under no bondage of conventual forms, with small means, and by their own exertions and self-sacrifices, do more good in their generation than can be easily reckoned—treading in the footsteps of their Master, bearing healing as they move. Every frugal meal was shared with some one less favoured. No fragments were too small for use in Sister Anne's most skilful cookery; not a crumb, nor a dreg, nor a drop was wasted. Many a cup of comfort fed the sick or the weary, made from what, in richer households, unthrifty servants would have thrown away. There were always roots to spare from the small garden, herbs for medicines, eggs for sale, salves, and lotions, and conserves of fruit or honey. All the poor infants in the parish were neatly clothed in baby-linen made out of old garments. There were always bundles of patches to give away, so useful to poor mothers; strips of rag for hurts; old flannel, and often new; a little collection of rubbish now and then for the bagman, though very rarely, the breakage being small where there were so few hands used, and they so careful.

They gave their time, too; for they were the nurses of all the sick, the comforters of all the sorrowful, the advisers of all in difficulty—without parade. They were applied to as of course—it seemed natural. And they were sociable: they had their little tea-parties with their acquaintance; they made their little presents at Christmas-time; they sweetened life throughout their limited sphere; and all so quietly, that no one guessed the amount of their influence till it ceased. They preached 'the word' practically, producing all the charity it taught, inculcating the 'peace on earth, good-will towards men' which disposes even rude natures to the gentler feelings, and soothes the chafed murmurer by the tender influence of that love which is so kind. They were unwearied in their walk of mercy, though they met with disappointment even among the simple natures reared in this secluded spot. They bore it meekly; and when cross or trial came to those around, then could our good sisters carry comfort to afflicted friends, never pleading quite in vain for the exercise of that patience which lightens suffering. They were as mothers to the young, as daughters to the old, of all degree; for they did not ostentatiously devote themselves to the poor and ignorant alone—the so-called poor: the poor in spirit, of whatever rank, were as much their care as were the poor in purse; their charge was all who needed help—a help they gave simply, lovingly, not as meddlers, but as sisters bound to a larger family by the breaking of the ties which had united them to their own peculiar household.

There was no scenic effect visible along the humble walk of their pure benevolence, no harsh outlines to mark the course they went, or shew them to the world as devoted to particular excellence all throughout a lifetime of painful mortifications. Very noiseless was their quiet way. In a spirit of thankfulness they accepted their lot, turning its very bitterness into joy, by gratefully receiving the many pleasures still vouchsafed them; for it is a happy world, in spite of all its trials, to those who look aright for happiness. Our sisters found it and bestowed it. How many blessed their name! How many have had reason to love the memory of these two unobtrusive women, who, without name, or station, or show, or peculiarity, or distinction of any kind, were the types of a class the circle of which even this humble memorial, by its truth and suggestiveness, may aid in extending—of the true, simple, earnest, brave, holy Sisters of Charity of our country!