“Oh, it’s a repeater like uncle Frank’s!” she cried, “and so small, too!  Mother said I couldn’t have one until I was grown up.  Won’t she be surprised!  I don’t mean to tell her for ever so long where I got it.”

“I thought it was for Ernest,” remarked Vera quietly.

“Why, Vera,” returned the child earnestly, “I should think you’d see that no boy ought to have a watch like that.  If it was a different kind I’d give it to him, of course.”

“Yes, if it wasn’t pretty and had nothing about it that you liked, you’d give it to him, I suppose; and if the bird couldn’t sing, and had dark, broken feathers so that no child would care about it, you’d give it to Faith, no doubt.”

Gladys felt her face burn.  She knew this was the truth, but oh, the entrancing bird, how could she see it belong to another?  How could she endure to see Ernest take from his pocket this watch and show people its wonders!

“Selfishness is a cruel thing,” said Vera.  “It makes a person think she can have a good time being its slave until all of a sudden the person finds out that she has chains on that cannot be broken.  You think you can’t break that old law of selfishness that makes it misery to you to see another child have something that you haven’t.  Poor, unhappy Gladys!”

“Oh, but this bird, Vera!” Gladys looked down at the little warbler.  What did she see!  A shriveled, sorry, brown creature, its feathers broken.  She lifted it anxiously.  No song was there.  Its poor little beady eyes were dull.

She dropped it in disgust and again picked up the watch.  What had happened to it?  The cover was brass, the picture was gone.  Pushing the spring had no effect.

“Oh, Faith and Ernest can have them now!” cried Gladys.  Presto! in an instant bird and watch had regained every beauty they had lost, and twinkled and tinkled upon the astonished child’s eyes and ears until she could have hugged them with delight; but suddenly great tears rolled from her eyes, for she had a new thought.

“What does this mean, Vera?  Will they only be beautiful for Faith and Ernest?”

“You asked for them to enjoy the blessing of giving, you know, not to keep for yourself.  Beside, they showed a great truth when they grew dull.”

“How?” asked Gladys tearfully.

“That is the way they would look to you in a few months, after you grew tired of them; for it is the punishment of the selfish, spoiled child, that her possessions disgust her after a while.  There is only one thing that lives, and remains bright, and brings us happiness,—­that is thoughtful love for others.  There’s nothing else, Gladys, there is nothing else.  I am Vera.”

“And I have none of it, none!” cried the unhappy child, and rising, she threw herself upon the bed, broken-hearted, and sobbed and sobbed.

Ellen heard her and came in from the next room.

“What is it, my lamb, what is it?” she asked, approaching the bed anxiously.