in sorrow.

Of course, we do not know what lies behind that, but it was something
of a heart-burning or heart-breaking kind; either the father was dead,
or the home was in a state of terrible poverty and distress, or the
child was a child of shame; you can only guess, and all your queries
will probably be wide of the mark. But the mother looked mournfully
upon him, and wished he had not come, and could not believe that a life
which commenced so untowardly would ever be anything better than a
burden to her, and a misfortune and misery to himself. She expressed
her fears and forebodings in the name which she gave him--Jabez, the
child of sorrow.

And while she was gloomily predicting his future with the black colours
of her despondency, God was writing the child's story in golden lines
which would have set her heart leaping for joy could she have read
them. This despised one was to win for himself a noble name, and build
up the house in honour, and become his mother's pride, and make her
young again in hope and gladness.

What fools we are when we set ourselves to forecast the future of our
children! They rarely develop on the lines we draw for them; the most
promising of them sometimes flatter us in the bud and blossom, and mock
us in the fruit. Where we hope most there comes most heartache, our
favourites are made our burdens, our pride is humbled by a harvest of
sorrow. And where we have bestowed most tenderness we get most
ingratitude--the child of many gifts, the joy of the household, the
flower of the flock, turns out the nightmare of our lives, the one
unhappy failure which costs us endless tears.