Aunt Kitty's Tales

by Madame Guizot

  Produced by Melissa McDaniel, Mary Meehan and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (Thisfile was produced from images generously made availableby The Internet Archive)

  AUNT KITTY'S TALES.

  BY MARIA J. M^cINTOSH,

  AUTHOR OF "TWO LIVES, OR TO SEEM AND TO BE," "CONQUEST AND SELF-CONQUEST," "PRAISE AND PRINCIPLE," ETC., ETC.

  A NEW REVISED EDITION.

  NEW YORK: D. APPLETON & COMPANY, 200 BROADWAY.

  PHILADELPHIA: GEO. S. APPLETON, 148 CHESNUT STREET.

  M DCCC XLVII.

  INTRODUCTION.

  It has been several years since Aunt Kitty last presented herself to heryoung friends, yet she hopes that she has not been forgotten by them,and that her reappearance will give them pleasure. She introduces tothem in the present volume no new acquaintance, but she offers to them,in one group, all who formerly interested them. Blind Alice and heryoung benefactress--Jessie Graham and her ardent, generous, butinconsiderate friend, Florence Arnott--Grace and Clara--and EllenLeslie, will here be found together. They have been carefully preparedfor this second presentation to the public by Aunt Kitty's own hand. Itis hoped that her efforts for their improvement have not been whollyunsuccessful, and that they will be found not altogether unworthyteachers of those lessons of benevolence and truth, generosity, justiceand self-government, which she designed to convey through them.

  _New York_, Feb. 15th, 1847.

  BLIND ALICE.

  Good morning, my young friend! A merry Christmas, or happy New Year, orat least a pleasant holiday to you;--for holiday I hope it is, as it ison such festivals, when there is no danger of lessons being forgotten,that I best love to see around me a group of happy children, all thehappier for having Aunt Kitty to direct their plays--to show them thepleasantest walks, or, when they are tired both of playing and walking,to sit with them by the fireside and tell them some entertaining story.I am never however entirely without such young companions. I have alwayswith me an orphan niece--Harriet Armand--who is about ten years old. Herfather and mother died when she was quite an infant, and she has eversince been to me as my own child. Then I have another niece--MaryMackay--just six years old, the merriest little girl on whom the sunever shone, who, as her father lives quite near me, spends part--hermother says the largest part--of every day with me. Besides these, thereare Susan May and Lucy Ellis, who, living in a neat, pretty village nearus, seldom let a fine day pass without seeing Harriet and me.

  I am the very intimate and confidential friend of all these littlegirls. To me they intrust all their secrets. I know all the pleasantsurprises they intend for each other; am consulted on birth-daypresents, and have helped them out of many troubles, which, though theymight seem little to larger people, were to them very serious affairs. Iencourage them to tell me, not only what they say and do, but what theythink and feel. Sometimes when they are a little fretful anddiscontented because their friends have not done just as they wished, wetalk the matter over together, and find that they have themselves beenunreasonable, and then the fretfulness is dismissed, and they try by avery pleasant manner to make amends for their hard thoughts and unjustfeelings. If any one has really injured them, or been unkind to them,and I find them too angry easily to forgive it, I bid them put on theirbonnets, and we go out together to look for their good-humor. Then, aswe see the gay flowers, and inhale the sweet perfumes, and listen to themerry birds that hop around us, twittering and chirping, my littlefriends forget to be angry; and while I talk to them of the good Fatherin heaven, who made all these beautiful and pleasant things for hischildren on earth, they feel such love and thankfulness to him, that itseems easy for his sake even to forgive those who have done them wrong.These are Aunt Kitty's lessons,--they are lessons for the heart, andsuch as I hope all my readers will be pleased to learn.

  The walk which these little girls and I best love is to a small house,about half a mile from mine. Small as it is, it looks so pleasantly withits white walls, (it is freshly whitewashed every spring,) and greenshutters, its neat paling and pretty flower-garden, peeping from themidst of green trees, that any one might be contented to live there. Inthis house lives a widow, with one only child, a daughter, a year olderthan my niece Harriet. I will tell you their story, which I think willmake you feel almost as much interested in them as we do, and you willthen understand why we like them so well, and visit them so often.

  About three years ago, my little friends, Susan May and Lucy Ellis,began to talk a great deal of a child who had lately come to the schoolin the village, which they attended. They said her name was Alice Scott;that her teachers thought a great deal of her because she learned herlessons so well, and that her schoolmates loved her because she was sogood-humored and merry. She had told them that she used to live a greatway off, and that her father and mother had left her other home becauseit was sickly, and had come here because they had heard it was a healthyplace. The girls said Alice looked very well herself, but that Mrs.Scott was pale, and that Alice said she was often sick. "A stranger andsick," thought I, "then I must go to see her"--and so I did, very soon.

  I found her a pleasing, as well as a good woman, though she seemed sad,except when Alice was with her, and then she was happy and cheerfulenough. She told me that her husband was a carpenter, and as he was anindustrious and honest man, he had as much work given to him as he coulddo, and would have made money enough for them to live on verycomfortably, had he not been so often ill himself, and obliged to pay somuch to the doctors who attended his family when they were ill. Thismade them very poor, but it was not being poor, she said, that made herlook and feel sorrowful,--it was the thought of three sweet littlebabies, all younger than Alice, who had died and been buried side byside in the green churchyard of the place from which they had moved.Then she would check herself, and say how very wrong it was for her togrieve so much, when God had still left her dear Alice with her, and sheknew her babies were all happy in heaven.

  Mrs. Scott was a very neat and careful woman, and poor as they were, shemade her home quite comfortable--a great deal more comfortable than thatof many people who have more money in their purses, and better furniturein their houses. Their little court-yard too was filled with prettyflowers, for Alice loved gardening, and was never so happy as whencutting her finest carnations and roses to dress her mother's parlor,and make nosegays for her young friends. And yet Alice was always happy,and so you felt she was the moment you looked at her. She was now ahealthy, fine-looking child of nine years old. Her very eyes seemed tosparkle with pleasure; she never walked when she was alone, but boundedalong like a young fawn. Her voice was very sweet, and was often heard,when she was with her young companions, ringing out in a gay laugh, orwhen she was by herself, singing some of the little hymns which hermother had taught her. Yet, gay as Alice was, her laughter was hushed,her bounding step became cautious and noiseless, and her bright eyeswere full of tears in a moment, if she saw either her father or hermother suffering from any cause. When they first came to the village,Mrs. Scott was subject to very distressing attacks of pain in the head,and it was touching to see the playful Alice changed into a quiet,watchful nurse.

  A year had passed away, and Mrs. Scott was healthier and happier anddear little Alice livelier than ever, when many people in our villageand in the country around, and especially many children, became ill witha very dangerous disease, called scarlet fever. My little niece Harrietwas one of the first who had it, and she was so ill with it that wefeared she would die. As soon as she was well enough to travel, I tookher to her grandfather's, about twenty miles off, for a change of air.When we left home, Mr. and Mrs. Scott and Alice were still well. Alice,who loved Harriet very
much, wished greatly to see her before she wentaway, if only to bid her good-by, but I would not consent for fear sheshould take the disease. Her mother however gave her permission to walkout on the road by which we were to pass, and take one look at Harriet,as we drove by. So when we were about half a mile from home, there stoodAlice by the road-side, with a bunch of flowers in her hand. As wepassed she threw the flowers into the carriage and called out "Good-by,good-by; dear Harriet, I hope you will come back soon, and well."

  I raised Harriet from the pillow on which she was leaning in a corner ofthe carriage, to the window, that she might see Alice; and as I lookedat Alice's red cheeks and smiling face and lively motion, while she ranalong by the side of the carriage for a few minutes, I felt sadder thanever to see Harriet so pale and weak.

  Now, my little readers, if any of you have a grandfather andgrandmother, and have ever gone to visit them after having been ill, youwill know how very glad Harriet's grandfather and grandmother were tosee her, and how anxious they were to gratify and amuse her. Harriet gotwell very slowly, and was obliged for some weeks to be much confined tothe house, and often to suffer pain. She was a good child, and bore allthis so patiently, that when at the end of six weeks we were aboutreturning home, her grandfather gave her a gold piece, worth two dollarsand a half, bidding her spend it as she liked. This, you know, was agreat deal of money for a little girl, and as Harriet had never had halfso much at one time, she was quite wild with delight, thinking at firstthat it would buy every thing for which she had ever wished. Oncalculation, however, she found it would take it all to buy one suchlarge wax doll as a little girl who had lately visited her had broughtwith her. The wax doll she was determined to have, for she thought it byfar the most beautiful thing she had ever seen, and so her money was atonce disposed of in her own mind.

  During the first part of her ride home, Harriet talked of nothing buther doll, which I was to get from the city for her as soon as I could.She had not quite decided what would be the prettiest name for it, orthe most becoming color for its dress, when we stopped at a friend'shouse, about eight miles from our home, where we were to rest for two orthree hours. Here there was a very clever girl, a little older thanHarriet, who brought out all her books and toys to amuse her. Among thebooks were several of those entertaining little volumes, called theBoys' and Girls' Library, which Harriet had never read. The little girloffered to lend them to her, and I allowed her to take one of them, asshe promised to be very careful of it. As soon as we were in thecarriage, Harriet begged me to read for her from this little book; andshe was not only much amused with it, but I was able to point out to hersome very useful lessons it contained.

  We did not arrive at home till after sunset, and as Harriet was muchfatigued, she was soon put to bed. Her room opened into mine, and I wentin early in the morning to see how she was. She was already awake, andgave me no time to speak to her, for as soon as she saw me, she criedout, "Now, Aunt Kitty, I know what to do with my money."

  "Why, my love," said I, "I thought you were going to buy a doll with it,like Eliza Lewis's, and you know I told you that such a doll would takeit all."

  "Oh yes, I know all that, Aunt Kitty, but I've something a great dealbetter to do with it now,--I am going to buy books with it. It will buyfive volumes of the Boys' and Girls' Library; for see here, Aunt Kitty,"showing me the price which was marked on a leaf of the book she hadbrought home the day before, "see here, this only cost fifty cents, andI've counted, and there are five times fifty cents in my two dollars anda half."

  "And are you very sure," said I, "that you will always like the booksbetter than the doll, and that when you have finished reading them youwill not feel sorry for having changed your mind?"

  "Oh no! I am very sure I shall not, for you know I could only play withmy doll now and then, and if I kept it all to myself I should soon growtired of it, and if I let the other girls play with it, it would soonget spoiled or broken, and I should have nothing left for my money; butit will take me a long time to read through so many new books, and whenthey get spoiled or torn up, if I remember what was in them, I shallstill have something for my gold piece. And then you know, Aunt Kitty,you cannot play with my doll, but you can read my books."

  I was always gratified that my little girl should wish me to share inher pleasures, and so I told her, adding that I thought her choice ofthe books rather than the doll was very wise. At the end of the bookwhich Harriet had just read, were the names of all the volumes of theBoys' and Girls' Library that had yet been published. Harriet turned tothis leaf, and began to show me which of them she intended to buy. Itold her, however, that she had better not think any more of them justnow, but that after breakfast she might write down their names and givethem to me, and I would send for them to a bookseller in the city. Inthe mean time I reminded her that she had not yet thanked her HeavenlyFather for his kind care of her while she was away, or asked him tobless her through this day.

  I then left her, as she was dressed, and went to the breakfast parlor,intending to put some questions to the servant who was there about myneighbors, which I had no time to ask the evening before. I now heardvery sad news indeed. The servant told me that a great many children,and even some grown persons, had died with scarlet fever. Among the lastwas Mr. Scott; and Alice had been near death,--indeed was still veryill. This news made me very sad, and when Harriet heard it she forgotboth her gold coin and the books it was to buy, while she begged to gowith me to see the sick child. As I was no longer afraid of her takingthe disease, since persons usually have the scarlet fever but once, Iconsented, and we set out as soon as we had breakfasted.

  As we came in sight of the house, we found it looking very gloomy.Though the morning was pleasant and the weather warm, the windows wereall closely shut. The little court-yard looked neglected; it was full ofweeds. Alice's flowers seemed to have withered on their stalks, andwanted trimming and training sadly. We did not see a creature, or hear asound, and every thing was so still and seemed so lifeless, that it mademe feel melancholy, and Harriet appeared a little afraid, for she drewclose to my side and took hold of my hand. When we came quite near, Ifound the door was ajar, and we went in at once without knocking. Theparlor door stood open, and I looked in, hoping to find some one therewho would tell Mrs. Scott of my coming, as I was afraid we might disturbAlice by going straight to her room. There was no one in the parlor, andbidding Harriet wait there for me, I stepped very softly on, to the roomdoor. I intended to knock at this door so lightly, that though Mrs.Scott might hear me, it would not wake Alice if she were asleep. When Icame near the room, however, I heard a sound like some one speaking verylow, yet not whispering. The door was not latched, and every thing wasso quiet that I stood still and listened. I not only knew that it wasAlice's voice, but I could even hear what she said. Her tone was veryfeeble, as if from her own great weakness, yet sharp, like that in whichpersons speak who are frightened or distressed. She appeared, poorchild, to be both frightened and distressed. It seemed to me that shewas complaining to her mother of the darkness and silence around her,while her mother did not answer her at all, but every now and thenmoaned as if in great pain.

  "Mother, dear mother," said Alice, "speak to me; and open the window,mother--pray open the window and give me some light. I am afraid,mother--I am afraid, it is so dark and still--so like the grave."

  For a moment the child was silent, as if waiting for her mother'sanswer; but as no one spoke to her, she cried out again, in stillsharper tones, "Oh, mother, mother, where are you? Wake up, mother, dearmother, and open the window and let me look once, only once, on theblessed light, and see your face; and then mother, I will be quiet andgo to sleep, and you may shut it all up again."

  I began now to be quite anxious about Mrs. Scott, who I thought must beill herself, or she would certainly answer Alice. Besides, I could notstand the poor child's distress any longer, and thinking it would be arelief to her to hear anybody speak, I pushed the door open and went in.The window was shut, as poo
r Alice supposed, but still there was lightenough for me to see her very plainly. Her face was as white as thepillow on which it was lying, and her long and thick dark hair fellaround it in great confusion. This, and the terror she felt, made herlook very wild. Mrs. Scott was kneeling at the foot of the bed, herhands were clasped over her head, and her face was buried in thebedclothes. Alice's eyes were opened very widely, and their look,together with what I had heard, told me the painful truth at once. Alicewas blind--perfectly blind,--an affliction that sometimes followsscarlet fever. Till this morning she had been either out of her senses,or so low and stupid from the disease, that she did not notice anything. But now she was better and stronger, and having heard the doctorbid her mother good morning, when he came in to see her, she was firstsurprised by the long-continued darkness, and then frightened by hermother's silence and distress. And poor Mrs. Scott! she had long fearedfor her child's eyes, as Alice would complain of the darkness when thebroad daylight was around her, and grieve that she could not see hermother's face when she was weeping over her pillow, or pressing her coldhand on her hot and aching head. But the fever gave Alice many strangefancies, and Mrs. Scott had hoped that this was one of them, till thismorning, when the doctor told her that her precious child was blind,quite blind, and must, he feared, be so always.

  I have told you that Mrs. Scott had had many sorrows; that she had beensick and poor, had lost three sweet children, and last and worst of all,her husband; yet she had never complained; she had always said, "MyFather in heaven loves me, and he sees this sorrow will do me good, orhe would not let it happen to me." But she was now weak and worn withgrief and fatigue, and when she first heard that her gay, laughing Alicemust now be always in darkness--that she could never again see the greenearth, or the beautiful flowers, or the bright skies she had so lovedto look upon--that, instead of running, jumping, and dancing along, shemust now be led by another, or feel her way very slowly and carefully,she was so distressed, so very, very sad, that she had no power toanswer Alice, except by low moans.

  Much of what I have now told you I heard afterwards; but I saw enough atonce to show me what I had best do. Now I want my little readers to markwhat I say, and remember whenever any thing happens to another whichterrifies or distresses them, they are not to run away from it, but totry to do something to remove it. It no doubt makes you feel very badlyto see another suffering, but then you know they feel a great deal worsethan you do, and if you will only think more of them than of yourself,you will generally find something you can do to help them.

  As soon as I saw how things were with Mrs. Scott and poor Alice, I saidto Mrs. Scott in as cheerful and quiet a manner as possible, "How d'yedo, Mrs. Scott? I have called to see how Alice and you are to-day, and Iam very glad to find she is better." Then going up to Alice, and takingher hand, I said, "I rejoice, my dear little girl, that you are gettingwell again; but you have been very ill, and your mother has watched byyou so long that she seems quite overcome with sleep. Will you let metake care of you for a little while, that she may rest?"

  I spoke very gently, and the child seemed pleased to hear any voicebesides her own.

  "Thank you, ma'am," said she, "I will be glad to have you sit by mewhile my mother rests, if you will only open the window and give me somelight."

  Her mother groaned.

  "I will open the window, my dear, and let you feel the breeze, and knowthat the light is around you, but your eyes are weak yet--so weak thatit would hurt them very much--perhaps blind them entirely, if the lightfell on them, so you must let me tie a handkerchief lightly over thembefore I open the window, and promise me you will not take it off whileit is open."

  In this I only told Alice the truth; for I knew if there was any hope ofher recovering her sight it must be by keeping her from using her eyesfor some time. She readily promised what I asked, and I then took mypocket-handkerchief, which was fine and thin, and passing it lightlyover her eyes, tied it so as to cover them without pressing upon them. Ithen opened the window, and as she heard me open it and felt the breezeupon her, Alice said, "Oh, thank you, ma'am, it is so pleasant to knowthat the light is here, and I can almost see it; but indeed you need notbe afraid of its hurting me, for I will keep my eyes shut all the time."

  The poor mother had by this time risen up from the foot of the bed, andwas trying to be calm; but when she heard her little girl speak in suchcheerful tones, and especially when she heard her say that she couldalmost see, knowing as she did that this was only a fancy which wouldsoon pass away, she was quite overcome, and bursting into tears shehurried out of the room. I thought it was best to let her go by herself,for I believed she would ask God to give her strength to bear this greatsorrow, and I knew that "like as a father pitieth his children, so theLord pitieth them that fear him," and that he could send into her heartsuch thoughts of his love and tender care for her and her dear child, aswould comfort her more than any thing I could say to her.

  I called Harriet in to see Alice. They were very glad to meet, andchatted cheerfully together, while I moved about the room, puttingthings in as neat order as I could. Harriet told Alice of every thingshe had seen since she had been away, which she thought could amuse her,not forgetting the beautiful wax doll, nor was the gold piece left out,nor what she intended to do with it. Alice quite approved of Harriet'sintention to buy books instead of a doll, and Harriet promised that shewould lend them to her as soon as her eyes were strong enough to read;for Harriet never supposed that Alice was blind, but thought thehandkerchief was bound over her eyes because the light pained them, asshe remembered it had done hers when she was ill.

  After a while, Mrs. Scott came in, and going straight up to Alice,pressed her lips tenderly over the places in the handkerchief whichcovered those dear eyes, and asked her gently how she was now. Aliceanswered cheerfully, "I feel a great deal better, and so glad to hearyour voice again. You quite frightened me this morning, dear mother,when you would not speak to me. Have you slept?"

  "Not slept, my love, but rested, and I too feel a great deal better."

  "I am very glad;" then raising her hand she passed it softly over hermother's face, saying, "I will be satisfied while I can hear you andfeel that it is you, though they will not let me look at you."

  Mrs. Scott's lip trembled, and the tears came into her eyes again, butthey did not run over. She kissed Alice, and then turning to me, thankedme for coming over, and asked how long I had been at home.

  "Only since yesterday evening," I replied, "and I have so much yet toattend to before I shall feel quite at home, that now, as you are ableto come back to Alice, I must, I think, leave her till to-morrow; butyou are too much fatigued to be left alone with her. I know a very goodgirl, who will not only help you to do your work, but who is so kindthat she will take care of Alice, and so cheerful and pleasant, that shewill amuse her when you cannot be with her. I will stop at her house onmy way home, and send her to you."

  The poor woman did not speak directly, but after a little while shesaid, "I think, ma'am, I ought not to let the girl you speak of come,for I am not so well able to pay for help as I once was."

  "I will settle all that with her," said I, "and I will find some way tomake your little girl here pay me for it, when she gets well. And now,Alice, you will I know remember your promise to me, and not even askyour mother to take the handkerchief off your eyes till she darkens theroom this evening. Perhaps, my dear child, you may have to be in thedark for many days, but we will do every thing we can to help you tobear it patiently. Harriet will spend part of every day with you, andshe can read for you till you are able to read for yourself again."

  "Oh, thank you, ma'am, I do not think I shall mind the darkness at all,now, if my mother stays with me, and you will let Harriet come veryoften to see me."

  "Well, my child, we will both come to-morrow, and now we will bid yougood-by, and I think you had better be still and try to sleep, forwhile you are so weak, it is not right for you to talk long withoutresting."

 
Harriet and I then left the room, followed by Mrs. Scott, who told Aliceshe was going to the door with us, and would soon be back. She openedthe door for us, and when we had gone out, she stepped out too, andtaking my hand, thanked me again and again for the comfort I had givenher poor blind girl, as she called Alice, when she was too much stunned,she said, to know what to do. I told her I thought it was very importantthat Alice should not know her misfortune till she was stronger, forfear she should grieve so much as to make her ill again; and that now,till the doctor should think it right to tell her of it, I hoped Alicewould suppose that the bandage, or the darkness of the room, kept herfrom seeing. "But," I asked Mrs. Scott, "does not the doctor thinksomething may be done to restore her sight?"

  "Nothing that I can do, ma'am," said the poor woman, beginning to weep,"and that's the worst part, and the hardest to bear;--though I try toremember that my Father in heaven sends that too. The doctor says thatin the city there are eye-doctors,--he calls them oculists,--who know agreat deal which he does not, and that they might do her some good. But,ah, ma'am! how am I to go to the city with her, even if they wouldattend her for nothing after we got there, when I owe more money than Ifear I can pay for a long while, without working very hard, and livingmyself, and what's worse, making my poor child live, on bread andwater!"

  I tried to say something that might comfort this poor woman, but I feltit was a very sad case, and could not say much. She answered to what Idid say, "True, ma'am, true, God will strengthen me to bear what onlyHis own hand could bring upon me. May he forgive my complaining heart.He has given me back my child from the very gate of the grave, and nowHe has sent you to me to be a kind friend in my time of great trouble,and I ought to feel, and I will try to feel, very thankful. But,good-by, ma'am, I hope to see you again to-morrow. I must not staylonger now, for fear my poor child should want me." So saying, she shookhands with Harriet and me, and went into the house.

  As soon as she was gone, Harriet, who had stood while we were talking,staring with a half-frightened look, first at Mrs. Scott, and then atme, said in a low tone, "Aunt Kitty, what is the matter with Alice? Whatdoes Mrs. Scott mean by calling her a blind girl? Surely, Alice will seeagain soon--will she not, Aunt Kitty?"

  "I fear not, my love, I fear not--certainly not, unless Mrs. Scott cantake her where she can have more done for her than anybody here can do,and I know not how she will get money enough to do that."

  "Money enough--why, Aunt Kitty, is Mrs. Scott so very poor?"

  "You heard her say that she owed money which she could only hope to payby working very hard, and living very poorly. She has no husband to workfor her now, Harriet, and Mr. Scott's and Alice's illness must have madeher spend a great deal."

  "Oh, Aunt Kitty! I am very sorry for Alice, and if I thought it wouldhelp her, I would--"

  What Harriet would have said was here interrupted by the coming up ofthe very girl whom I had wished to get to help Mrs. Scott take care ofAlice. I told her of Alice's blindness, how anxious we were that sheshould not hear of it just now, and that we wished to keep her amused,as well as to have her made comfortable. I added, that I would pay herfor what she did, and then asked how soon she could go.

  "Right away, right away, ma'am. Poor things, and such kind and cleverpeople as them are too. I only wish, ma'am, I could go to 'em withoutpay; I am sure if it wasn't for them as depends on me, I'd do it withall my heart."

  I told her this was not necessary, though it was very kind, and againbidding her take good care of Alice, I sent her to them while I wenthome.

  Harriet was very silent during the rest of our walk. I did not ask anyquestions about what she had been going to tell me she would do forAlice, if she thought it would help her; because, whatever she did, Iwished should be done from her own free will. When we were again athome, she did not go to play or to read, as usual, but sat down in oneplace, as if she were tired, and seemed very thoughtful; yet she nevernamed Alice, which surprised me a little, as she was accustomed to talkto me of whatever distressed her. In the afternoon she tried to amuseherself, bringing out first a book and then a toy from her room into theparlor where I sat, until she had gathered together all she had; butthere seemed still to be something wanting, for in a short time thebooks were laid aside, the toys pushed away, and Harriet, apparentlyforgetting them, again sat as she had done in the morning, quiet andthoughtful. After it began to grow dark, she carried her books and toysback to her room, and came and seated herself at my feet. As the weatherwas warm, we had no lights in the parlor, and the hall light just let ussee where objects stood, but was not bright enough to show us veryplainly what they were.

  "Aunt Kitty," said Harriet, "can Alice see no more plainly than we donow, when there is no light in the room?"

  "Not so plainly, my love, for we can see a little. She can see no morethan you can of a dark night, when you wake up at midnight, with yourwindows shut and your curtains down."

  She was silent a few minutes, and then said, "It must be a dreadfulthing, Aunt Kitty, to be blind."

  "Yes, my dear Harriet," said I, "it must be a dreadful thing--and I fearneither you nor I have been thankful enough to God for saving you fromsuch an affliction, when you got well of the same disease which has madeAlice blind. When you pray for your little friend to-night, my love, donot forget how much reason you have to be thankful that you can see."

  Harriet did not say any thing more, but she laid her head on my lap, andI heard her sob once or twice.

  It was now getting late, and kissing her, I told her it was time for herto go to bed, and that I would only sit up long enough after her towrite a letter to a bookseller to whom I intended sending for the books.Harriet was now standing by me in the hall, where I had gone to lighther candle, and when I mentioned the books, she looked as if she wasabout to speak, but stopped herself. After I had ended, she said, "AuntKitty,"--then stopped again.

  "What, my love?" said I.

  "Nothing, ma'am--good-night," and taking her candle she went to herroom.

  I wrote my letter and then went to mine, into which, you must remember,I have told you hers opened. I turned my latch very softly, for fear ofwaking Harriet if she was asleep; but as soon as I entered, she calledout, "I'm not asleep, Aunt Kitty; please come here, and let me speak toyou."

  I went to her directly, asking what was the matter.

  "I have been waiting and listening a long time for you, Aunt Kitty, forthere is something I wanted to say to you, and I could not go to sleeptill I had said it. I hope you did not write the letter about the books,for I do not want them now, Aunt Kitty. I want you, if you please, togive the money to poor Mrs. Scott, that it may help her to go to thecity and get something done for Alice's eyes."

  "My dear Harriet, this money is yours, and you have a right to do whatyou will with it, but I hope you have thought well of what you are goingto do now. It will not do afterwards to be sorry you did not buy thebooks you want, which you will not be likely to get in any other way."

  "Oh no, Aunt Kitty! I do not want them now; at least, I do not want themhalf so much as I want Alice to see again, and I have thought very muchabout it,--indeed I have.

  "When I first heard Mrs. Scott and you talking this morning, and yousaid Alice was blind, and Mrs. Scott was too poor to take her to thegood doctors, who might do something for her, I remembered my goldpiece, and thought I would give it to her to help her, and I was justgoing to tell you so when Betty Maclaurin came up, and you stopped tospeak to her about going to Mrs. Scott's, and then I could not, youknow."

  "Well, but you could have told me after she had gone, if you stillwished it."

  "Yes, I know I could, but while you were talking to her, I remembered mybooks, and I called all their names over, and thought how Alice wouldlike to hear me read them, till I wanted them more than ever; and then Ithought it would be a great deal kinder to get them and read some ofthem every day to Alice, than to give Mrs. Scott my money, which,though I think it so much, would hardly help her at all. Besides, Aunt
Kitty, I knew you and my uncle and my grandpapa would give Mrs. Scott agreat deal more money than my two dollars and a half, if it would helpAlice."

  "And what made my little girl change her mind--what made her think thiswould not be best?"

  "I do not know, Aunt Kitty; I only know I could not think of any thingbut Alice all day, though I tried every way to forget her, and everything I looked at made me feel bad, because Alice could not see it too."

  "Did my little Harriet never think, during all this time, of that verseshe learned from her Bible the other day, which I told her would alwaysteach her what she ought to do for others, 'As ye would that men shoulddo to you, do ye also to them likewise?'"

  "Oh yes! Aunt Kitty, I thought of that this evening, when you weretelling me what a dreadful thing it is to be blind, and that I mighthave been blind, as well as Alice, and I said to myself, if I had beenblind, I would have thought it very unkind in Alice not to do all shecould to help me to see again, and then I felt as if I was so cruel thatI could not help crying; and when you said you were going to write forthe books, I wanted to beg you not to do it, but somehow I could not--soI only bid you good-night, and came to bed."

  "And what happened then to make you feel differently? Tell me all youfelt and thought, dear child, and then I shall know whether you aredoing right now."

  "Why you see, Aunt Kitty, after I was undressed I knelt down to say myprayers, and after I had thanked God as you told me to do, for my owneyesight, I tried to pray that He would give Alice back hers; but,though I said the words over and over again, I could not feel as if Iwas praying them, for I kept thinking, Aunt Kitty, how deceitful Godwould think me, to pretend to care so much for Alice's eyes, when Ireally cared so much more about my books; and then I remembered thelittle prayer you taught me once, 'Oh God! I pray thee show me what isright to do, and make me love to do it.' As soon as I said 'what isright to do,' it came into my head that it was right for me to do all Icould for Alice, if everybody else did ever so much for her; and now,Aunt Kitty, I wish I had a great deal more money, that I might give itall to her--and though I am just as sorry for Alice, I do not feel halfso bad about her; for if we are willing to do all we can for her, God,who loves her a great deal more than any of us, will certainly give herback her eyesight. Don't you think he will, Aunt Kitty?"

  "God does love her a great deal more than we do, my dear; but He is agreat deal wiser than we are, and He may see that it is best for Alicethat she should continue blind, though it seems so terrible to us. Youmust remember, therefore, that Alice may go to the city and come back nobetter. Should you not feel sorry then that you had given up your bookswithout doing her any good?"

  Harriet thought for a moment, and then said, "No, Aunt Kitty, for Ishould have done what was right, and I could never feel sorry for that,you know."

  I kissed the sweet child, and said, "Dear Harriet, always remember whatyou now say. Do right, my child, and you will be happy, let what willhappen,--far happier than if by doing wrong you could get every thing inthe world you wished for. And now I may tell you that you could havemade no use of your money which I would have thought half so good, orwhich would have given me half so much pleasure."

  "I am very glad, Aunt Kitty; I was afraid at first that you did not likeme to give it away."

  "Why, Harriet? What made you feel afraid of this?"

  "Because you did not talk at first as you do when you are very muchpleased."

  "I had a reason, my dear, for not seeming very much pleased until I hadheard _why_ you wished to give your money to Alice,--a very good reason,I think, which it would take me too long to explain to you to-night, forit is very late already for such a little girl to be sitting up. Go tobed now, and to-morrow morning I will tell you all about it." Harrietwent to bed, and soon forgot her good intentions and my good reasons ina sound sleep.

  I dare say my little readers thought just as Harriet did, that I did notseem at first as much pleased as I ought to have been with her kind andgenerous feelings to her friend; but if they will read the conversationI had with her the next morning, I think they will understand why thiswas.

  I did not wake Harriet as early as usual the next morning, because shehad been up so late at night. As soon, however, as she was well awake,she remembered our conversation, and said, "Now, Aunt Kitty, you willtell me what you promised?"

  "Not now, my love, for it is late, and breakfast will soon be ready; butafter breakfast we will go to Mrs. Scott's, and on our way there, I willanswer all your questions."

  As soon as we had set out for Mrs. Scott's, Harriet again reminded me ofmy promise.

  "Well, my love," said I, "you wish to know why I did not tell you atonce how much pleased I was with your intention to help Alice. It wasbecause I wanted first to hear your reasons for doing it, and so to knowwhether you were acting from an impulse or a principle."

  Now my little readers are doubtless very much puzzled by this "actingfrom an impulse or a principle," and so was Harriet, too. She looked upin my face with a very thoughtful air for a minute, then shook her head,and said, "Aunt Kitty, I do not understand you at all, I do not evenknow what _impulse_ means, or _principle_ either."

  "I did not expect you would, my love; but I hope to be able to explainthem to you, if you will listen very carefully to what I am going tosay. Persons are said to act from impulse, when they are led to do athing from feeling, without pausing to ask whether the feeling be rightor wrong. Thus, if you were eating a piece of cake, and a very poorchild should come up to you, and saying she was hungry, ask you for it,and you should give it to her without a moment's thought, from a feelingof pity for her, this would be acting from impulse."

  "And would it not be right, Aunt Kitty, to give the poor little child mycake?"

  "Very right, my love, and if you had asked yourself what it was right todo, you would have given it, perhaps, just as quickly, for you know yourBible tells you, 'Be pitiful'--'Feed the hungry.' Your feeling of pity,then, was a right feeling, and your readiness to give your cake was whatwe call a good impulse; but you know there are some very wrongfeelings, such as anger, which sometimes makes little girls give hardwords, and even hard blows, to their brothers and sisters, or playmates,who will not do as they wish. This again is acting from impulse, thoughit is a bad impulse. So you see, my dear Harriet, as the best-naturedpeople in the world sometimes have very wrong feelings, if they areaccustomed to do just what their feelings tell them to do, that is, toact from impulse, you can never be sure whether their actions will begood or bad."

  "But, Aunt Kitty, when I find out my feeling is a right feeling, I maydo just what it tells me to do?"

  "No, my love; even when a feeling is a right feeling, it will not bewell to do always just what it tells you, for a right feeling may leadto a very wrong action. You think this strange, but I will tell you astory which will show you that it sometimes is so. A little girl wasonce sent by a lady who was making a visit to her mother, to a threadand needle store, to buy a spool of cotton for her. The lady had givenher a shilling, which she held carefully between her finger and thumb,for fear of losing it. Another girl who was passing saw the shilling,and wanted it very much. Being a very wicked child, she began to cry, orat least, to seem to cry, saying that she had just lost the onlyshilling her mother had, as she was going to the baker's to buy a loafof bread with it; that they had nothing to eat at home, and she wasafraid her mother would beat her when she went back and told her whatshe had done. The little girl who had the shilling felt very sorry forher, and offered to help her look for the money. They did look for it along time, the wicked child crying piteously all the while, and sayingthat her mother would kill her, till the other little girl felt sogrieved, that she gave her the shilling which she had in her hand. Now,as she believed the wicked child's story, the sorrow she felt for herwas very right, and yet you see it led her to do a very wrong action--togive away what did not belong to her. Nor did the wrong-doing stop here;when she went home, her mamma, to whom she intended to tell all
aboutit, was gone out, and the lady asking for her cotton, she was afraid totell her what she had done with the money, and so she committed agreater fault by saying what was not true,--she told her she had lostthe shilling. The lady thought her very careless, and thus she got blamewhich she did not deserve, and as she was really a good little girl ingeneral, she was quite miserable for several days about the story shehad told, until she summoned courage to let her mamma know the wholetruth. Here you see, Harriet, a very kind feeling made this little girlact very badly; but if she had been accustomed, when a feeling inclinedher to do any thing, to ask herself if it would be right, before she didit, that is, to act from principle instead of impulse, she would havesaid to the wicked child, 'I am very sorry for you, and if this shillingwas mine, I would give it to you, but it is not. You must wait till Ihave bought the spool of cotton I was sent for, and then, if you will gohome with me, I will ask my mamma for another shilling for you.'"

  "Now, Aunt Kitty, I think I understand you; if I had given my money toAlice yesterday morning, when I first heard she was blind, and before Ihad thought what was right for me to do, I would have acted fromimpulse, would I not?"

  "Yes, my love, and though it would have been a good impulse, and youwould even then have had more pleasure than in spending it in any thingthat was only for yourself, yet I am afraid your pleasure would not havelasted long. You would soon have begun to think of your books, and ifother people offered to help Alice, you would have thought you had beenvery foolish to give them up."

  "But I shall not think so now, Aunt Kitty--I shall always think it wasright to give them up to do Alice good."

  "That is true, Harriet, and the happiness you feel in doing what isright, you will always feel; for that which makes you happy will notchange; what is right to-day, will be right to-morrow, and the next day,and the next."

  We walked on a little way in silence, and then Harriet said, looking upat me with a smiling, pleasant face, "Then, Aunt Kitty, after all, itwas not very wrong for me not to give my money to Alice at once?"

  "It was not wrong at all, my dear, for you not to give it till you hadasked yourself whether it was right to do so; but you might have askedthis question as soon as you felt sorry for Alice, and then you wouldhave done in the morning what you waited till night to do, and havefelt just as happy on account of doing it. I would be very sorry to havemy little girl suppose that when she sees anybody in distress, she mustwait a great while to think the matter over, before she does any thingfor them. There is only one question you need ask, before you try tohelp them, and that is--What is it right for me to do? This, you can askimmediately, and you need not wait long for an answer--conscience willtell you very honestly and very quickly what is right."

  Now perhaps some of my little readers may not know as well as Harrietdid, what I mean by conscience, so I will tell them. I mean somethingwithin you, which makes you know whether you have been good or badchildren, before anybody else says any thing about it.

  "But, Aunt Kitty," said Harriet, "how is my conscience always to knowwhat is right or wrong?"

  "There are many ways, Harriet, in which conscience may learn somethingabout it; but the easiest and simplest way of all is by reading yourBible, and trying to understand and remember what that tells you to door not to do. When conscience is thus taught, if it tells you that whata feeling would lead you to do, is right, you must do it at once,without thinking any farther about it; and if conscience tells you afeeling is wrong, you must try to get rid of it at once."

  "Get rid of it, Aunt Kitty!" said Harriet, with a wondering look, "howcan I get rid of a feeling?"

  "The best way, my dear Harriet, is by refusing to do any thing it wouldhave you. Thus, if you are angry with any one, and the feeling of angerwould have you say some of those hard words to them which I spoke ofjust now, refuse to say them, or if possible even to think them over inyour own mind, and you will very soon get rid of your anger."

  Harriet did not say any thing for some minutes. When she next spoke, itwas in a very low and somewhat sad tone.

  "Aunt Kitty, I am afraid I cannot do all you tell me, for I have triedsometimes, when I have been angry, not to say any thing, and I could nothelp talking."

  "I know, my dear, that it is often very difficult, but the harder itis, the happier will you feel if you can do it. But, my dear Harriet,you planted some seeds in your garden this morning, and watered them,yet you know they could not grow any more than a pebble could, if Goddid not put life into them, and make them take in the water and thewarmth which will nourish them and cause them to swell out and putforth; and so, after all the instructions which I can give you, or evenwhich you can get from your Bible, it is only God who can put into yourheart such a strong desire to do right, that you will receive theseinstructions, as the little seeds receive the water and warmth, and putforth right feelings and right actions, as they put forth their greenleaves. This you must ask Him to do. But here we are in sight of Mrs.Scott's, slowly as we have walked, and you will not be sorry, I suppose,to have such a very grave talk stopped."

  "I am not glad to have you stop talking, Aunt Kitty, but I will be veryglad to see Alice, for I have brought a book to read for her, that Iknow she wants to hear very much."

  I was pleased to see, as I approached, that the house looked morecheerful. The parlor windows were open, and as we went up the steps andpassed through the little porch, I saw that they had been nicely swept.The door was latched, and on my knocking at it Mrs. Scott herself openedit for us. She seemed very glad to see us, and said Alice felt strongerand better, and that she had been looking, or rather listening for usall the morning. We went directly to her room. There too every thingseemed in order, and looked pleasantly. The sash was raised, and thesoft warm breeze brought to us the sweet smell of the clover, a field ofwhich was in bloom quite near the house. Alice was sitting in bed,propped up with pillows, and though still very pale, looked much morelike herself than she had done the day before. The handkerchief was overher eyes, as I had placed it, and I told her I was much pleased to seeshe had not forgotten her promise. She smiled and answered mecheerfully, "Indeed, ma'am, I have been very careful to keep it. I wouldnot ask to take off the handkerchief till my mother shut the window lastnight, and told me it was quite dark, and I tied it on myself as soon asI woke this morning, though that was long before daylight. But now," sheadded, speaking very fast, as if she was afraid that something wouldcall off my attention before I had heard all she wished to say, "may notI have it off just for one single minute? I do want to see the clover,for I know it is in bloom by the smell."

  "And I hope, my dear little girl, you will be satisfied to know it onlyby the smell to-day, for it would be very imprudent to expose your eyesto the light so soon. Harriet has come to spend the morning with you,and you must see with her eyes. She will read for you, and when you growweary of listening, she will tell you how any thing looks which you wantvery much to see."

  "Oh! I shall like that, for then, Harriet, I can see all that you sawwhen you were away, your grandfather's house, and all the places thatyou passed on the road, for you know you can tell me how they looked,and then I shall see them through your eyes. Will not that be pleasant!"

  Having thus satisfied Alice, I proposed to Mrs. Scott that we shouldleave the children, as I thought Harriet would read better, and Aliceand she would talk more freely, if we were not there to listen to them.I had another reason too, as my little readers will presently see. Iwanted to speak to Mrs. Scott about Alice, to learn whether the doctorhad seen her after I went away the day before, and whether he stillthought that something might be done in the city for her eyes. Mrs.Scott told me he had been there the evening before, when poor Alicethought the room quite dark, and wondered her mother did not bring in alight for the doctor, though a lamp was burning brightly on the tablenear her. The doctor passed this lamp before her eyes, holding it quiteclose to them, but she never winked. Poor Mrs. Scott told me this withher eyes full of tears, which streamed down her ch
eeks as she added,that the doctor did not speak a word, but that the mournful shake of hishead as he set down the lamp said as plainly as any words could do, thathe thought her child's a very bad case. The doctor's house was quitenear to Mrs. Scott's, and while she was speaking, we saw him coming homefrom a visit he had been making. He was on horseback, and seeing me atthe open window, he stopped his horse at the gate of the court-yard tosay that he was glad to see me at home again, and to ask how his littlefriend Harriet was, for Harriet having been, as I told you before, avery good child in her sickness, she and her doctor were very closefriends.

  Leaving Mrs. Scott in the parlor, I went to the gate of the court-yard,and told the doctor I wanted to put some questions to him about Alice,which I would rather Mrs. Scott should not hear. He very kindly got offhis horse and came quite near me. I then told him that I wished to knowfrom him whether there was the least hope that any thing could be donein the city to restore Alice's sight. Looking very grave, he answered,that he was afraid not, but as physicians who knew more about the eyesthan he did might think differently, if Mrs. Scott were a little richer,or if he were rich enough to help her, he would still advise her to go.I told the doctor that I had some friends who I thought would give Mrs.Scott as much money as would take her to B. and pay her board as long asit would be necessary for Alice to stay there, but that I was afraid theattendance of these oculists would cost a great deal more perhaps thanthey could give.

  "Not if she go to B.," said the doctor quickly. "That, you know, is theplace from which I came, and I know many physicians there. To some ofthese I would give Mrs. Scott letters, and through them, the pious andexcellent Dr. W., the best oculist there, might be made acquainted withthe case of our little Alice. He would, I am sure, do all he could forher without any charge."

  I asked the doctor if he knew any thing of the Institution for the blindin B.

  "Yes, ma'am," he replied. "It is a most noble institution, and itsmanager, Dr. H., the most benevolent of men. To him I can give Mrs.Scott a letter, and this poor child will, I doubt not, have all the aidwhich he can give her."

  Perhaps my little readers never heard of these institutions for theblind, and I will therefore tell them, that there, those who areperfectly blind are taught to read, write, sew, and do many fancy works,which it would seem to us quite impossible to do without sight. Now youwill see at once, if Alice should continue blind, what a great advantageit would be to her to be taught such things. To sit always in the dark,and be able to do nothing, might make even a merry little girl sad,while even blindness may be borne cheerfully, when the blind can beemployed. Besides, Alice, if able to do some of the works I have named,might earn money by them, perhaps enough to support herself and hermother too; and I need not tell you what a comfort that would be to agood, affectionate child.

  Before the doctor left me, I asked him how soon it would be prudent forAlice to travel; and he said, if she continued to get better, she mightset out on the following Monday, as she would go almost all the way in asteamboat, which would not fatigue her so much as travelling by land. Headded, if by Saturday evening I were able to get as much money for Mrs.Scott as would be necessary, he would have the letters he had promisedto write ready for her, and we would then meet at her house on Sunday,and tell the poor little girl of her blindness, as kindly and gently aswe could, if she should not discover it before that time.

  When I went back to the house, finding Mrs. Scott still in the parlor, Itold her of what the doctor and I had been speaking, and asked herwhether, if she should go to B. and find that nothing could be done bythe physicians there for her child's eyes, she would be willing to haveher placed for a year or two at the Institution for the Blind.

  "Willing, my dear ma'am!" said the good woman, "I shall be thankfulindeed to the kind people who give their money to support such a goodschool, and still more to God, who put it in their hearts to do so. Iknow it will be very hard to part from my poor little girl, even for anhour, now she's so helpless, but I need not come far away from her, forI dare say I can get some kind of work in B. by which I can make enoughto live upon, and if she can't come home to me at night, they will,maybe, let me go to see her every day; don't you think they will,ma'am?"

  "I do not doubt it," I replied; "but now I will see Alice, and bid hergood-by, for I must hasten home to write a letter that I wish to sendaway this afternoon."

  I entered Alice's room as I spoke, and found her still listening to thebook which Harriet had not more than half finished reading, as she hadstopped to talk over with Alice whatever seemed to her most pleasant init. Alice seemed so unwilling to part with Harriet, that I gave herpermission to stay till evening, when I promised to send for her,adding that I would call again myself the next morning.

  "And then, ma'am," said Alice, "do you not think--" she stopped, andseemed confused.

  "Do I not think what, Alice--speak, my dear child,--what would you ask?"

  "I am afraid you will think me very teasing, ma'am; but I am so tired ofthe dark. Do you not think I can take off the handkerchief by thattime?"

  It made me very sad to hear her speak of being tired of the dark--so sadthat I could not answer her directly. Thinking from my silence that Iwas displeased with her, she burst into tears and said, "I was afraidyou would be angry with me."

  "Indeed, my dear child," said I, kissing her and wiping the tears fromher face, "I am not angry, nor am I at all surprised that you should betired of this unpleasant bandage, but you will not now have to bear itlong. This is Thursday--on Sunday the doctor says he will take it offaltogether. You will try, I hope, for the next two days to bear it ascheerfully, and think of it as little as possible."

  "Oh yes, ma'am! indeed I will,--I will not say another word about it."

  "And now, my dear little girl, I would have you remember in all yourtroubles, little and great, that He who sends them is God, your kind andtender heavenly Father. Do you think, Alice, that your mother wouldwillingly make you suffer pain?"

  "No, ma'am, I am sure she would not."

  "And yet she has given you, since you were sick, very bad-tasted andsickening medicine, and even put a blister on you, which must have givenyou great pain. Why was this?"

  "To save me from being more ill, and having greater pain, and to make mewell," said Alice, in a very low voice.

  "True, my dear child; and God, who tells us in the Bible that he lovesus better than even mothers love their children, never, we may be sure,suffers any pain or trouble to come upon us which is not to save us fromgreater pain, to make us better. Remember this, and it will help you tobear a great many things easily, which would otherwise seem very hardand fret you very much. Harriet, can you not repeat for Alice thoselines you learned the other day, called a conversation between a motherand her sick child?"

  As Alice looked very grave, I pressed her little hand in mine, andwithout speaking went out of the room, as Harriet began to recite thelines which I will set down here, as I think my little readers wouldlike to see them.

  _Conversation between a Mother and her sick Child._

  CHILD.

  Mother, we read to-day, you know, Where holy Scriptures tell That Jesus, when he lived below, Loved little children well.

  And then you told me how his word, From the bad spirit's power, Freed him, who never spoke, nor heard, Until that blessed hour.

  Beside the ruler's lifeless child, In pitying tone he spoke, "The maiden sleeps"--though scorners smiled, She heard his voice, and woke.

  And now, you say, above the sky Unchanged, he loves us still; Then why did he let baby die, And why am I so ill?--

  MOTHER.

  When Mary walk'd with mother last, She saw a little flower, Drooping its head and fading fast Within her garden bower.

  To a more sunny spot removed, That flower blooms fair and bright; Our drooping baby Jesus loved, And bore from earthly blight.

  And
though, my child, I cannot tell Why yet he leaves you ill, As I am sure he loves you well, I doubt not that he will, At the best time, heal every pain, And make my Mary well again.

  The letter which I had told Mrs. Scott I wished to send off thatafternoon was to Harriet's grandfather, to whom I intended writing aboutAlice; for he was a very kind, good man, and was always glad to be toldof those who wanted, when he had any thing to give. He had promised tomake us a visit soon, but I did not know that it would be so soon asthis week. However, about an hour after I had gone home, when I hadwritten, and just as I was folding my letter, a carriage drove to thedoor, and he alighted from it. As I knew he would stay with us two orthree days I was in no hurry to speak of Alice, preferring to wait tillHarriet came home in the evening, and see whether she would think ofinteresting her grandfather in her little friend. He had been with meabout two hours when I sent for her, and he told the servant who wentthat she need not mention his coming, for he thought it would be verypleasant to see Harriet's first joy at meeting him, when she so littleexpected to see him.

  As Harriet came back with the servant, we could now and then catch aglimpse of her white dress through an opening of the wood, and while shewas still too far off to distinguish the faces of persons sitting in theparlor, her grandfather moved away from the window, so that she mightnot see him till she was quite in the parlor. She came up the steps andthrough the porch and to the parlor door very quietly and rather slowly,as if she was almost sorry to come in; but the moment she saw hergrandfather, she threw down the flowers she had been picking, andspringing towards him, was in his lap before he could even rise from hischair to meet her, crying out, "Oh grandpapa! I am so glad to seeyou--so very, very glad--more glad than I ever was in my life before."

  "Why, how is that?" said he, smiling and kissing her, "I thought mylittle pet was always as glad to see old grandpapa as she could possiblybe."

  "So I thought, too, but now I am more glad than ever, for I want somemore money very, very much; and I know you will give me some."

  Mr. Armand, for that was his name, looked all at once very grave, andsaid, "So--it is to get money you are glad--not to see me!"

  I saw he was not quite well pleased, for he turned aside his face asHarriet would have kissed him, and seemed about to put her out of hislap. But Harriet was too eager to notice all this; she kept her seat,and putting her arm around his neck, spoke very fast, "Oh yes,grandpapa! you know I am always glad to see you; but now I do want somemoney for poor Alice."

  "For poor Alice," said Mr. Armand, "that alters the case," and drawingher close to him again, and looking much better satisfied with her, headded, "And who is Alice?--and what makes her _poor_?"

  "Alice! Why don't you remember Alice Scott, that I talked so much aboutwhen I was at your house? Don't you remember I told you I loved to playwith her better than with any of the girls, because she was sogood-natured, and never was tired?"

  "Ah! now I think I do remember something of her. And is it because sheis so pleasant a playfellow, that you wish me to give you some money forher?"

  "Oh no, grandpapa--that would be funny," said Harriet, laughing; but ina minute she was looking very serious again, and went on speaking moreslowly--"Poor Alice's father is dead--he died while we were away--andher mother is very poor, and Alice has been ill, and oh, grandpapa!she's blind, quite blind, and Dr. Franks says he cannot do her any good,but that there are some doctors, eye-doctors, oculists--is it not, AuntKitty?--in B., who might do something for her, and poor Mrs. Scott hasnot any money to carry her there. Now, grandpapa, will you not give mesome for her?"

  "Have you given her some yourself, Harriet?"

  "Yes, grandpapa, I have given her all I had, but though it was a greatdeal for me it is not near enough for her, you know."

  Mr. Armand was silent a minute, and then said, "I am very sorry, my dearchild, to disappoint you, and still more sorry not to help your littlefriend, in whom I feel much interest; but what can I do? I have justspent a great deal of money on a present for you, and I really have nownone to give."

  "Spent a great deal of money on a present for me!" repeated Harriet,with a wondering face.

  "Yes, my dear. I think eighty dollars a great deal of money to spendfor a little girl, and I have just given all that for a present for you.Do you remember the little pony you saw at Mr. Lewis's house, and do youremember thinking Eliza Lewis must be a very happy little girl, becauseshe had such a large wax doll to play with in the house, and such alittle pony to ride when she went out?"

  "Oh, grandpapa! I know that was very foolish in me, but I remember itall--the beautiful pony and all."

  "Well, my dear, that beautiful pony is now yours, and will be here thisevening with a new saddle and bridle, for all of which I gave, as I havejust told you, eighty dollars."

  "Oh, Aunt Kitty!" cried Harriet, her eyes bright with joy, "only hear,that beautiful little pony!--and he is so gentle I may ride him all bymyself--may I not, grandpapa?"

  "Yes, I bought him on that account, for your aunt told me that she wouldlike to have you ride, but feared to put you on one of her horses. Thispony," he said, turning to me, "is as gentle as a lamb, and so wellbroken and obedient, that you scarcely need a bridle for him. I madethem bring him very slowly, and rest him some hours on the road, that hemight not be at all tired when he got here, for I thought Harriet wouldwant a ride to-morrow morning."

  "Yes, yes, dear grandpapa, that will be so pleasant, and I can ride himto Mrs. Scott's, and let Alice see--oh grandpapa!" suddenly stoppingherself and looking very sad, "she cannot see him. I had forgotten allabout it--and now you have not any money for her, what will she do? PoorAlice!"

  "I am very sorry for her," said Mr. Armand, "for it must be a sad thingto be blind. Had I heard about her this morning, I do not know that youwould have got your pony, for a gentleman, at whose house I stopped,wanted him so much that he offered to buy him from me at any price.However, he is now yours, and I have no right to him or to the money hewould bring. I hope you will enjoy riding him very much, and think ofdear grandpapa whenever you ride."

  He kissed her again and put her down from his lap. Harriet stood besidehim, and smiled a little at first, but not so joyfully as she had donewhen she first heard of pony. After a while her countenance grew moreand more serious. Several minutes had passed, and her grandfather and Iwere talking of something else, when Harriet said to him, "Grandpapa,would that gentleman who wanted pony, give you the whole eighty dollarsback again?"

  "Yes, my love."

  "And would you give it all to Alice, grandpapa?"

  "I should have no right to give any of it, Harriet. The pony is nowyours, and should you choose me to sell him, the money would be yours,and I should honestly pay every cent of it to you, and you could give itto Alice if you liked."

  Harriet was again silent for a minute or two, and seemed verythoughtful; then, raising her head and putting her hand into hergrandfather's, she said, "Grandpapa, please take pony back and send methe money."

  Her grandfather laid his hand affectionately on her head, and said,"Certainly, my child, if you wish it, when I am going,--that will giveyou two nights and a day to think of it. You have not seen pony's newsaddle and bridle yet, and you may change your mind."

  "Oh, no, grandpapa, I shall not change my mind, for I am sure it isright to do without pony myself, and let Alice have the money."

  She looked at me as she said this, and I replied, "I am pleased that youhave not forgotten what we talked of this morning."

  Pony came, and beautiful he was, and very pretty was the new saddle andbridle; and Harriet rode him to Mrs. Scott's, in the morning, and homeagain, and very much did she enjoy her ride; yet she did not change hermind, for when her grandfather asked, on the morning he left us, "Well,Harriet, does pony go with me, or stay with you?" she answered directly,"Go with you, grandpapa." And when he was brought to the door, allsaddled and bridled for his journey, she went up to him, and strokinghis sleek sides, said,
smilingly, "Good-by, my pretty pony--good-by; Icould love you very much, but not so much as I love Alice."

  So pony went on Saturday morning; and on Saturday evening (for thegentleman who bought him only lived about ten miles from us) came theeighty dollars, enclosed in a very affectionate note to Harriet, fromher grandfather. She seemed never tired of reading the note, or ofadmiring the pretty new bills that were in it. When she gave me thesebills for Mrs. Scott, she begged me not to say any thing about her ingiving them. As I always liked to know my little girl's reasons for whatshe did, I asked, "And why, my dear?"

  She looked confused, hesitated a good deal, and said, "Aunt Kitty, doyou remember when that little baby's mother died last summer, and Ibegged you to let me make its clothes, and--and--oh, you remember, AuntKitty."

  "Yes, Harriet, I remember that you sewed very industriously at first,and afterwards, getting tired of your work, the poor little baby wantedclothes sadly."

  "But, Aunt Kitty, that is not all. Do you not remember what you told mewas the reason I felt tired so soon?"

  "I think I do; was it not that you had done it from a desire for praise,and that as soon as people were tired of praising you, you were tired ofworking? But I do not see why you speak of that now; when you have giventhe money to Alice, you cannot take it back, so you need not be afraidof changing."

  "No, Aunt Kitty, not of changing--at least I could not take itback--but--but you know--" she stopped, and hung her head.

  "If you did it for praise, you think you might get sorry for having doneit, and wish you could take it back, when people were done praisingyou."

  "Yes, Aunt Kitty, that is it--and if people knew it, I could not bequite sure that I was not doing it to be praised, you know. I am veryhappy, now that dear Alice will have it, and I do not think I can everwant to take it back, or ever be sorry for giving it to her; but youtold me the other day, that doing right was the only thing I could be_certain_ of always being glad of; so I would rather, if you please, youwould not say any thing about me, and then I shall know that I have doneit only because it is right, and that it will always make me just ashappy as I am now."

  I was too much pleased with Harriet's reasons, to refuse her request; sono one but her grandfather, her grandmother, and myself, ever knew whatshe had done for Alice, till now that I have told it to you, which Iwould not have done, did I not feel sure that after what I have said ofher wishes, you would not, if you should ever meet her, speak to her onthe subject.

  I was able to add twenty dollars to Harriet's gift, and so there wereone hundred dollars for Mrs. Scott to begin her journey with. It wouldcost her but little to go to B., and this would enable her to stay therequite long enough to learn what could be done for Alice. Harriet thoughtshe would rather give her gold piece to her friend herself, to spend asshe liked.

  On Sunday afternoon the doctor and I met, as we had agreed to do, atMrs. Scott's. We saw her first in the parlor. I gave her the money, andthe doctor had his letters ready for her, and explained very carefullyto her what he wished her to do. He had already sent by the mail aletter to his sister, who lived in B., telling her of Mrs. Scott'scoming, and requesting her to look out for some quiet place, where shemight be cheaply boarded, as near as possible to the Institution for theBlind, for there he thought Alice would have to go. He now gave Mrs.Scott, on a card, his sister's name, and the name of the place where shelived, telling her to go there when she arrived in B., and if his sisterhad not found a place for her, he was sure she would keep her at her ownhouse till she did. Having arranged all these things with Mrs. Scott, wewent into Alice's room.

  Alice was sitting up, and was so anxious for our coming, and so happy atthe thought of seeing once more, that she had quite a rosy color in hercheeks. The doctor looked at her very sadly, and said "How d'ye do" toher, with a very soft and kind voice. She seemed hardly to hear him--butsaid very quickly, with a pleasant smile, "Now, doctor, must I take offthe handkerchief?" and raised her hand to take out the pin whichfastened it.

  "Not yet, my dear," said the doctor, taking hold of her hand, "I wish tosay something to you first. I fear, Alice, that you are going to be verymuch disappointed. You have no idea how very bad your eyes are. Theygive you no pain, and therefore you think there cannot be much thematter with them; but, my dear child, those are not the worst diseasesof the eye which give the most pain. You think that only thishandkerchief keeps you from seeing, but I am afraid that when I take itoff you will still see very dimly--very dimly indeed--nay, Alice, I mayas well tell you all,--I fear, that at present, at least, and perhapsfor many days to come, you will not see at all."

  As Dr. Franks spoke, the smile had gone from Alice's lip, and the colorfrom her cheek, so that when he was done, instead of the bright, happyface she had when we came in, she was looking very pale and very sad.She seemed to have forgotten the handkerchief, her hands hung down inher lap, and she did not speak a word. Both the doctor and I were muchgrieved for her, and Mrs. Scott's tears fell upon her head as she stoodleaning over the back of her chair. Alice did not weep--indeed, sheseemed quite stunned.

  After a while, the doctor said, "Alice, this handkerchief is of no useto you, and it must be very warm and unpleasant--shall I take it off?"

  Her lips moved, and she tried to say, "Yes, sir," but we could scarcelyhear her.

  It was taken off. Alice kept her eyes shut for a little time, and thenopened them suddenly, and turning them first towards the window, lookedslowly around the room, then shut them again, without saying a word. Shesoon opened them, and looking towards the doctor, said, in a low,faltering voice, "Doctor, is it night?"

  "No, my child, it is not more than four o'clock in the afternoon."

  She was silent a minute, then said, "Is it cloudy?"

  "No, Alice, the sun is shining brightly."

  She was again still for a little while--the tears began to come into hereyes, and her lip quivered very much, as speaking again, she said, "Arethe windows shut?"

  The doctor again answered her, "No, they are open, and the sashesraised."

  Poor Alice covered her eyes with her hands for a second, then stretchingout her arms, and turning her head around as if looking for some one,she cried mournfully, "Mother, mother, where are you?"

  "Here, my own precious child," said Mrs. Scott, as coming round to theside of the chair, she put her arms around her, and drew her head downupon her bosom. Alice did not cry aloud, but her tears came fast, andher sobs were so deep, that it seemed as though her heart would breakwith this great sorrow. The doctor said, softly, to Mrs. Scott,"Persuade her to go to bed, as soon as you can," and then both he and Iwent out, for we knew her mother would be her best comforter.

  Mrs. Scott was to leave her home at ten o'clock the next morning, and atnine Harriet went over to say some parting words to Alice, and I toreceive some last directions from Mrs. Scott about taking care of thehouse and furniture for her. I could see that Harriet was almost afraidto meet Alice, thinking she must be very miserable now that herblindness was known to her. But though she looked sadly, and turned awaywith tears in her eyes when we first spoke to her, she soon began totalk with Harriet about her journey. She seemed to hope to receive greatgood from the physicians in B., and I was glad to find that her motherhad not tried to discourage this hope; for, I said to myself, if nothingcan be done for her, she will find it out soon enough, and every daythat passes will help to prepare her better for it. She seemed muchgratified by Harriet's present of the gold piece, and when she bade megood-by, said, "I thank you, ma'am, very much, for all your goodness tome."

  Mrs. Scott, too, begged me to tell the friends who had helped her howvery grateful she was to them, and how earnestly she would pray to Godto reward them for all their goodness to her and her fatherless girl. Iknew by the color that came into Harriet's face, and the tears thatsprang into her eyes, as the good woman spoke, that she had heard her;and I was glad of it, for I thought that she deserved to be made ashappy as I felt certain such thankfulness would make her
, for her desireto do right, and her readiness to give up her own pleasures for herfriend's good.

  After our friends were gone, I spent some time in giving directions toBetty about the cleaning and putting away things, so that she mightleave the house in order; and Harriet kept herself from being very sadby working in Alice's garden, weeding the beds and tying up the flowers,which, as I said before, had been left during her illness to trail uponthe ground.

  Mrs. Scott had promised to write to me as soon as the physicians haddecided whether they could or could not be of any service to Alice; andyou may be sure we looked very anxiously for her letter. It came abouttwo weeks after she had left us, and I will copy it for you here, as Iam sure you will like to see it.

  B----, July 2, 18--.

  MY DEAR MADAM,--

  You were so kind as to ask me to let you know what the doctors here might think of my little girl's case, and I have only been waiting for them to make up their minds about it, before I wrote to you. Yesterday they told me, what I felt long ago, that they could not help her. This is a great trial, ma'am, but, blessed be God, with great trials He sends great mercies. I don't know, ma'am, how to tell you the thankfulness that is in my heart, first to Him, and then to you and Dr. Franks, and all the other kind friends that have helped me through this affliction. It is a comfort to me to feel that every thing has been done for my poor child that could be done; indeed, I fear it would have broken my heart to think that something might be done to make her see again, and to feel that I could never get money enough to pay for that something, if I worked till I was dead. Oh! I thank God that I have not got that to bear.

  But I am forgetting all this time to tell you how kind everybody here has been to me. Miss Franks is the doctor's own sister, I am sure, for she is just such another kind and generous person. The steamboat did not get here till it began to grow quite dark, and I was very much troubled, thinking how I should find my way up through the crowd, and fearing lest my little trunk should get lost, which had all our clothes in it, or that if I went to see about that, Alice would get hurt, when a man came on board and asked for me. He said Miss Franks had sent him with a carriage to bring us to her house. It was a hired carriage, as I found afterwards, for I thought at first it was her own; but she would not let me pay any thing for it. Was not this kind? She had us to stay at her house the first night, and the next morning took us again in a carriage to the place where she had got board for us. This was in a very neat house, and with a clever, good woman. She is an elderly, single woman, who seems to be pious, and is very kind to us. Miss Franks sent round her brother's letters, after she had written on them the name of the street and number of the house we were staying at, that the doctors might know where to find Alice.

  The next day three doctors came and brought with them a Dr. W----, who, they said, knew more about the eyes than any of them. At first my little girl seemed shy of having so many strangers see her; but they were so kind to her, that she does not feel at all afraid now. Indeed, ma'am, everybody is kind to her, and they speak so softly and pitifully to her, that it often makes the tears come into my eyes, and my heart feel so full, that I have to go away to my room and thank God for all His goodness and theirs to her; for you know, ma'am, goodness to her child, and that a poor blind child too, is more to a mother than any thing people could do for her.

  Two or three days ago, Dr. H., who they say is at the head of that Institution for the blind you talked to me about, came to see us, and he talked so gentle and pleasant like, that Alice loved him right away. He had some talk with the doctors when they came, and then he asked Alice if she would not like to know how blind children, who never had seen at all, read and wrote and sewed, and told her, if she would come to his house, he would teach her as they were taught, and that she would find many of them learning there. Alice seemed very glad to hear that she might learn to do these things now, and need not wait doing nothing till her eyes got well, for you know, ma'am, she was always an industrious child, and it grieves her sadly to sit all day idle. She asked though if I could come with her, and the kind gentleman said I could come with her in the morning, and bring her away in the afternoon. This made my heart jump for joy, for I was afraid he was going to say she must stay there all the time. She will begin to go next Monday.

  And now, ma'am, I must tell you some more of Miss Franks' goodness. She has got me some plain sewing, and so many of her friends promise to employ me in that way, that I hope I shall be able to live by my needle; and then, ma'am, I think, maybe I ought to send back what money I have left, to them that were so good as to give it to me. Will you please, ma'am, to tell me if this would be right? Alice begs me to send her love to her dear friend, Miss Harriet, and her dutiful respects to you. She bid me tell Miss Harriet that she has not spent her gold piece yet. Please, ma'am, to tell the doctor how kind his sister has been to us, and thank him for all he has done for us. I am afraid, ma'am, I have tired you with this long letter; but indeed when I began to write, I could not help telling you of all the goodness which has been showed to me. God bless you, ma'am, prays

  Yours, very thankfully,

  MARTHA SCOTT."

  Mrs. Scott was told that those who had given her the money would nothave any of it returned, and she then, I afterwards found, paid everyone in our village to whom she owed any thing, saying, that though theyhad told her to make herself easy, she could not be easy while she wasin debt to those who, she knew, needed the money.

  In a few months after she went to the Institution for the Blind, Alicewrote a letter to Harriet, and from that time they wrote to each otheras often at least as once in a month. It has been now about three monthssince Dr. Franks, who had been making a visit in B----, brought Harrieta letter from Alice, which gave her great delight. You shall read it foryourself, and see how much reason she had to be pleased with it.

  B----, April 14, 18--.

  DEAR HARRIET,--

  I am so happy that I can hardly write, or do any thing but tell everybody near me how happy I am; or when there is nobody near me, sit down and think of you and your good aunt, and Dr. Franks, and Susan and Lucy, and everybody that lives at home. Oh, Harriet, we are coming there--coming home next week--dear home. It is the middle of April now, and so many flowers will be opening, and the peach-trees and the apple-trees will be in bloom soon, and they will look so beautiful. I cannot see them, but I can smell them, and feel them, and think how they look. Oh, Harriet, how much better off I am than the poor children who never did see, and who cannot remember how such things looked! But I cannot write any more now, except good-by, from your affectionate

  ALICE.

  P. S.--I have spent the gold piece; I will show you how, when I come.

  Mrs. Scott sent a message to me by the doctor, to ask, with manyapologies for troubling me, that I would get Betty Maclaurin to go toher house early in the next week, and put every thing in order for herby Wednesday evening, as she hoped to be at home some time in thatnight. Betty liked Mrs. Scott and Alice, and was quite ready to do thema kindness; so, early on Monday morning, she was at work, and she workedso industriously in the house, and Harriet so industriously in Alice'sgarden, that, before Wednesday evening, both house and garden were inperfect order.

  Harriet's grandfather had taken so much interest in Alice, that he hadsaid, when she came home he intended to come to see her; so Harrietfound time, in the midst of all her preparations for her friend'sarrival, to write him what day she was expected; and on Wednesday, notonly he, but her grandmother also, who seldom left home, came to spend aweek with us. I was not in the house when they arrived, and when I camein, Harriet met me at the door b
efore I had seen them, and cried out,"Oh, Aunt Kitty! grandpapa's come, and grandmamma too; and only thinkwhat they have brought me--dear, pretty pony--as pretty as ever, withanother beautiful new saddle and bridle. Is it not good in them, and amI not a happy girl?"

  Now my little readers must not suppose that Mr. Armand had only madeHarriet believe that pony was sold, while he really kept him for her. Ohno! Mr. Armand always told just the truth, and pony was sold--really andtruly sold--to the gentleman he had spoken of, who had bought him forhis son. This boy was gone to a school at a distance from his home, andbesides, he was now so good a rider that his father thought he mighthave a larger horse when he came back, so he was not unwilling to letMr. Armand have pony again, when he expressed a wish for him.

  Harriet was indeed a happy girl this Wednesday evening, and still morehappy was she when she set out, after an early breakfast the nextmorning, to ride on pony to Mrs. Scott's. As I started at the same timeto walk there, and she would not leave me, she rode very slowly. If anyof you can remember some morning in Spring, when the air, though cool,had not the least frosty feeling in it, when the grass was fresh andgreen, when the trees had put out their first tender leaves, and thepeach and the pear and the apple blossoms looked as if just ready toopen, to have risen early and walked or ridden out, while the leaves andthe blossoms were still glittering with the night-dew, you will know howdelightful Harriet and I found it. We went on, at a brisk pace for me,and a slow one for pony, till we were in sight of Mrs. Scott's house,when Harriet looked so eager, that I bade her hasten on. As I spoke, Icheruped to pony, and he went off in a smart trot, which soon broughtHarriet to the gate. I had then just entered the clear space before thehouse, and could see and hear all that passed. Alice was standing at theopen window, looking healthy and happy. As pony stopped, she called outto her mother, who seemed to be in some other room, for she spokeloudly, "Mother, mother, here is somebody on horseback--it must be thedoctor."

  "No, Alice, it is Harriet," cried my little niece, as she sprang fromher pony, without much of the caution which she had promised hergrandfather always to use in getting down.

  "Oh! it is Harriet," exclaimed Alice, clapping her hands joyfullytogether, and then putting them out to feel her way to the door. Mrs.Scott came from the next room, and taking her hand, led her to meet us.The little girls were in each other's arms in a moment, and any one whohad looked at Alice's happy face, and her eyes bright with tender andglad feelings, would never have believed they saw a blind girl. Harriettold of the beautiful pony her grandpapa had brought her the eveningbefore, and Alice passed her hands over him to feel how small he was andhow sleek and glossy his sides were, and promised that she wouldsometimes mount him and walk him over to my house with Harriet at herside. Then they went into the flower-garden, and Alice exclaimed, "Oh,Harriet! how nicely you have weeded my beds and trimmed my flowers."

  "Betty told you that," said Harriet.

  "Betty told me who did it, but I knew it was done without her tellingme, for I felt them. I did not have to feel my hyacinths and jonquils toknow they were in bloom, for I smelt them, and I know exactly how theylook. My rose-bushes too," said she, putting her hand on one, "are inbud; they will soon be beautiful. You see, Harriet, I love my garden,and can take pleasure in it, if I am blind;--but come into the house,and let me show you the books they have taken pains to make for poorblind people, and the different kinds of work I have learned to do."

  Alice took Harriet's hand, and walked with a quick and lively step intothe house. When they had entered the door, she left Harriet, and puttingher hands out to feel that there was nothing in her way, passed into thenext room, and soon came out again with her arms full. There were only afew books--I was sorry to see so few--but they were so large that shecould not well have carried any more. Having laid them on the table, sheopened one, and we saw that the letters were large, and so raised fromthe paper that the blind could feel their form, and thus distinguishthem as readily as we can distinguish the letters in ordinary printingby seeing them. Alice soon showed us how this was done, for passing herfinger over the lines of a sentence on the page to which she had opened,she read it as correctly as anybody could have done. Then turning withquickness to a box which stood near, she said, "Now see my work."--Therewere baskets she had woven, purses and bags she had knitted, pincushionsand needle-books she had sewed as neatly as possible. Full of animationand happy as Alice seemed in showing these things, I am certain she wasnot half so happy in showing, as Harriet was in seeing them. Havinglooked at them myself, I went into the garden to show Mrs. Scott wheresome seeds were planted. From the garden I could still hear and seethrough an open window what was passing in the parlor, and I was toomuch interested in the feelings of these little girls not to attend tothem. I soon saw, however, that they did not think themselves observed;for Harriet--who had hitherto spoken little, expressing her pleasure inlooks more than in words--as soon as they were left alone, took Alice'shand, and said, "How glad I am you can do so much!"

  "I knew you would be glad, and that made me show you; and I wish I couldshow them to all the kind people who gave mother money to take me to B.,for, you know, if it was not for that, I could not have learned to dothese things,--and you don't know, Harriet, how hard those first darkweeks were to bear, and how often, when I thought it would be always so,I wished I was in the grave-yard with my little brother andsisters;--that was wicked, I know, Harriet, but I could not help itthen."

  Harriet stood with her face turned from me, yet I could see by hermovements that she was weeping.

  Alice put her arm around her, saying, "Don't cry, I am very happy now."

  "And so am I," said Harriet, sobbing, "and I believe that's what makesme cry."

  "That's funny too," said Alice laughing, and Harriet laughed with her,though the tears were still on her cheeks. Then Alice told that therewas a kind shopkeeper in B., who had promised to buy all she made, andthat her mother said, she got so much money from him, that she couldafford to keep a woman--Alice hoped it would be Betty--to do the hardwork, and as she would only take in a little plain sewing, she wouldthen be able to sit with Alice, and could sometimes spare time to readto her. "And Harriet," she added, "I promised to show you what I hadbought with the gold piece you gave me. I bought the straw for my firstbaskets, and the braids and ribands for my first purses and bags, andthe pieces of silk and velvet for my first pincushions and needle-books;so you see how much it helped me," and she kissed Harriet, littleknowing how much more she owed to her.

  And now, if any of my little readers have thought that Harriet made afoolish choice, when she gave up her pony to help her friend, they will,I am sure, change their minds when they remember what a sad house thiswas at the time that Alice first became blind, and think that now, asHarriet looked at Mrs. Scott's contented and Alice's cheerful face, andsaw how much her friend could do and could enjoy, and heard that by herpleasant employments she could not only support herself comfortably, buthelp her mother too, she could say to herself--"This is my work--it isI who have made them so happy." Who would not have given pony for such afeeling, even though they had never got him back again?

  When we were going away, Alice very modestly gave me a beautifulwork-basket, a very neat needle-book, and pincushion, all of her ownmake. For Harriet she had made a very pretty bag, and hearing that Mr.and Mrs. Armand were with us, she selected a very handsome purse andneedle-book, and requested Harriet to present them to her grandfatherand grandmother, as the offerings of a blind girl.

  And now, my young friends, I have little more to tell you of Alice. Ifyou could visit her, you would find her sometimes employed in makingthose tasteful and pretty things, by the sale of which she aids insupporting her mother and herself--sometimes in her garden, feeling forthe weeds and pulling them away from her plants, or tying up her vines,or cutting flowers to dress their pleasant little parlor--sometimeswalking, leaning on her mother's arm, or on that of some youngcompanion,--and though you may see her look a little sad when herfr
iends speak of a beautiful flower, or admire a fine sunset, you willoftener hear her sweet voice in cheerful talk, or merry laugh, orsinging some pleasant hymn, expressive of her gratitude to God for Hisgoodness to her. And when you see and hear all this, you will, I hope,not envy Harriet, for that would be a wrong feeling, but watch everyopportunity of going and doing like her.

  As this has been a very long story, and I do not wish to tire you, Iwill now bid you good-by, hoping you will soon wish to hear from meagain. Whenever you do, I shall know it, and shall be quite ready tohave another talk with you.

  THE END.

  JESSIE GRAHAM:

  OR,

  FRIENDS DEAR, BUT TRUTH DEARER.