th dear Miss
Grey and baby Susie, who was just three years old. Betty was walking a
little behind the others with her eyes fixed on the ground. It was damp
and mossy, and there was a thick growth of ferns and underwood at the
side of the path. Suddenly she saw something move quickly through this,
and disappear down a hole. She stopped and moved aside the ferns and
moss. What do you think she saw sitting comfortably in the hole and
staring at her with its moist bright eyes?

A large speckled toad!

"Look, look, Miss Grey!" she cried, and everyone gathered round to see
what she had found. Even Susie peered into the hole, and poked a bit of
fern gently at the toad, which sat there gazing quietly at them.

"What a jolly little home he's made for himself!" said Martha. "All soft
and moist, and just exactly to fit him."

"He can't see out much," said Betty as she put back the moss gently over
the top.

"I don't think he wants to," said Miss Grey. "He is quite satisfied,
like many other people who live in holes."

The children ran on through the wood, except Betty, who kept back and
took hold of Miss Grey's hand.

"What do you mean about living in holes?" she asked presently.

"Well, you know, we all live in holes of one kind or another. Some are
rough and some smooth, some fit us exactly, and some don't fit us at
all. Some are softly lined with all sorts of comforts, and some are full
of pricks and troubles. And it is always very difficult to see out of
them."

"Why?" asked Betty.

"Because, like the toad's hole we saw just now, our own lives are so
near us and surround us so closely, that it is only by making an effort
that we can get out of them and understand other people's lives at all.
The only thing that can really make us do that is sympathy."

"What does that mean?"

"It is that which makes us able to put ourselves in thought into other
people's holes, and feel what it is like to live there. When we do that
it makes us remember to be patient and gentle with our friends and
companions, for if they live in uncomfortable holes it must be difficult
for them to be unselfish and amiable. If we had their troubles and
vexations we might not be half so pleasant as they are."

Betty was silent.

"Do you think Martha's hole and mine is nicer than Kitty's?" she said at
last.

"Well, I think in some ways it may be. At any rate you know Kitty has no
sisters to play with, and very little of this country life you