Mrs. Minturn went frequently to Nannie's home when the girl took little Dora out for a walk, for she wished to accustom her child to the sight of the various conditions of life, so that if she were spared to womanhood she might not be so far removed from her fellow-creatures as to hesitate to enter any abode, however humble, and to minister to the needy; and the gentle lady sat with her silken robes falling over the home-spun carpet, and her soft features exposed to the glare and steam of that common room, looking with a happy heart upon the joyous group before her. The poor widow, with her gown of print and checked apron, laid down her weary needle to attend to the sweet voice that ever sounded so soothingly in her ear, and the delighted child shook its rough toys, holding them up to the view, first of one, and then the other, and laughing aloud in her boisterous glee.



CHAPTER XXVII.

Mr. Bond was coming home! the glad news was in Nannie's hand, and he was even then bounding over the waters toward his lowly friends.

The room looked very sunny that morning, and the hearts of the expectant ones danced for joy. He would be there the next week, and they must all be there to meet him on Friday—that seemed so like a reality, to name the very day. Pat could request a holiday of his employers, and, as for Mrs. Minturn, she was sure to participate in all of Nannie's pleasures, and would be ready with the permission to spend the important day at her mother's. The greatest trouble was the intervening hours; how could they be comfortably disposed of! they had duties enough to perform, and yet the time went slowly and wearily; but it had an end, and a happy one—for the kind face was before them, as fat and merry and amiable as ever, and the immense corporosity moved about the room with as much gravity as so jolly a person was capable of. Nobody would have suspected that he had ever been ill, or that the shadow of a sorrow had ever troubled him. Seated beside the window with the June air playing blandly upon his forehead, he congratulated himself that he was once more among his friends. What if they were humble and poor! there was a depth and richness in their love for him that neither comes of station nor wealth, and it sunk soothingly and gratefully into his glad heart, making it fruitful in a pure joy.

"It is not quite so pleasant bouncing up and down at the will of the angry waves, Nannie," said he, "as to sit quietly in this lolling-chair with your friends all about you, I can tell you, my girl!" and he looked at Nannie with a twinkle and a laugh, as if to say, "I'm well out of it, though. The ocean doesn't have any mercy on a body's bones, but tosses you about as if you were an India-rubber ball made on purpose;" added he, bursting into a hearty roar as he caught Mrs. Bates' eye fastened upon his rotund proportions, as if to ascertain where the bones were. "Oh! well, my good woman," continued he, "even a porpoise couldn't stand the bumping and thumping that we poor mortals are subject to when we trust ourselves on shipboard. Why, I solemnly protest that I've been pitched from my berth, many a time, quite across the cabin into my neighbor's and back again, in a trice, and that without ceremony, too!"

The old gentleman did not seem very indignant, but smiled upon his auditors as placidly as if there had been nothing but calm on his homeward journey, and he did not even mind their merriment as they pictured to themselves his robust figure bounding about like a foot-ball.

You are in the right of it, Mr. Bond. If you are the object of an innocent glee, it is better to join in the merry laugh, rather than to don a severe and offended dignity. It is quite a funny thought, though, that, amid such pitiless peltings you should escape with not even the slightest impression upon your fleshless bones! well, there's some comfort in being fat, you have that to console you. He doesn't look as if he ever needed to be consoled, but I can tell you that even Mr. Bond is not wholly exempt from the annoyances and trials of life! He has learned how to make the best of every thing, and that is more than half toward averting a trouble. Put a cheerful face upon the matter, it will but make it worse to fret and frown and keep your neighbors uncomfortable about it, besides working yourself into a teapot! Mr. Bond crowded all the evils down into the deepest corner of his heart and turned the key upon them, and that was the end of them. Nobody ever got hold of and magnified them, until he felt that they were too painful for any mortal to bear, for he kept them so close that they had not room to breathe, and so suffocated, and he knew nothing more about them.

It was a way of Mr. Bond's—there, couldn't every body do it—there's a certain process to go through before one can learn, and he had tried it thoroughly, and was really a proficient in the thing. It isn't every body that cares to learn—it is very pleasant to draw a friend into a corner and pour into a willing and sympathizing ear all that affects one depressingly, but it is a question whether either is benefited by the confidence—the gloom may not only be deepened upon your own face, but it may reflect itself upon the countenance before you also. Better imitate the amiable and wise bachelor, and impart nothing but that which will bring a bright gleam with it.



CHAPTER XXVIII.

Mrs. Kinalden was in a terrible flutter. Her lodger's "traps" had come, and were well disposed in his silent room; she had every thing in order to receive him. The light and the sun were admitted into the long-time darkened space, and puss was curled up upon the rug as if she had never known another resting-place. The dove-colored merino went up and down the stairs, and the clean cap-border flew backward with every agitated movement.

"It was very strange that he didn't come! Hadn't the boat been in since ten o'clock in the morning? so the truckman told her, and here were the hands at two in the afternoon! There was no accounting for it after all that had passed between them!" However, it couldn't be helped, and as the hour of three struck, and no Mr. Bond appeared, the despairing woman betook herself to her green moreen rocking-chair, and, what else could she do?—wept. Yes, wept! and while the red silk handkerchief hid her disappointed face, a heavy step sounded in the hall, and a familiar voice came through the half-open door of the little parlor. "Heigh-ho! what's the matter here? I thought I'd escaped the terrors of the briny deep; but bless my heart! here I am in the midst of it again!" and Mr. Bond's plump hand was extended to greet his landlady, who quickly wiped away the offending drops, and grew calm. "Couldn't come before, madam," said he, in reply to her question as to what had detained him so long. "Had to go first and see how Nannie and Pat got on, you know!" That was rather overwhelming—so inconsistent with "My dear Mrs. Kinalden."

The shocked widow looked indignant and muttered something about "professions of regard," and "affectionate epistles," etc.; but it was all lost upon the obtuse man who talked on, about what especially concerned him, and then went gleefully up the stairs.

What wonder if his heart did beat quicker as his hand touched the knob of his room-door! Isn't it like meeting a dear friend, after a long absence, to cross the threshold of a cherished locality? The very inanimate things seemed invested with a silent joy at his return, and the face from the portrait beamed out a glad welcome. There are tears in the bachelor's eyes as they meet the blue orbs so fondly fastened upon him, for his thoughts are upon the gentle and confiding embrace that was once his. Woe unto you, Mrs. Kinalden! If there were a single impregnable spot in the good man's bosom, that tear would never have found its birth.

Puss, awakened by the heavy foot-falls, leaps about her master's legs, and gives a spring into his narrow lap, as he takes his chair, maintaining her precarious position by fastening her claws tightly in his broadcloth, to the no small danger of the limbs beneath, and purrs her perfect satisfaction. Oh! it's a good thing to get home! There's not so comfortable a place on the face of the earth, as the spot we call our own, with the objects that meet our daily touch strewn all about in their accustomed places. It's a pleasant thing to go out into the wide world too, and gather up a noble stock of incidents and experience, and thoughts, to expand the ideas that get pent-up and contracted by a narrow and confined position; but it is far better to turn about with one's face toward the dearer haunts and the best loved friends, and the familiar pleasures!

So thought the weary old man, as he sat in his big arm-chair, while his vision roved from one thing to another in his cosey room, and the warm breath of his favorite puss touched his hand.

It was all like a dream to him—the path he had trodden upon the deep, and the wanderings amid tropical scenes, and the transition from place to place within the last few months! He arose and looked into the garden below. When he had left, a white covering was spread over every thing and the sun's rays fell coldly upon snow and ice. Now there was fresh foliage upon trees and shrubs, and the perfume from newly-blown roses came up to greet his willing senses, and the little girls were playing under the thick shade. They looked up with a merry shout, as a shower of bon-bons fell upon their heads, and clapped their hands for very rapture, as the happy face peered out upon them through the half-closed blinds.



CHAPTER XXIX.

Captain Flin and his wife are coming down the street in full gala attire. The pipe has vanished, but the card-case is still conspicuous amid the folds of a stiffly-starched embroidered handkerchief. They have been to see the Airlys, and have posted themselves up in all their affairs, and they are now en route to return the numerous visits that have been paid to their new house and furniture. If that could have been put upon rollers and trundled about to drop its card, it would have been quite an acceptable deputy, and would have saved a world of embarrassment to the unsophisticated couple.

There's a worthy man upon the walk at a short distance from them. He shuffles along with his heavy gait and home-spun dress, but there is a good honest frankness in his face that commends him to the passers-by. He has almost reached them, and is about to give some token of recognition, when they whisk across the street with averted looks. Didn't I tell you so, Captain Flin? The twelvemonth lacks a week, and Jerry Doolan has gone to his home with downcast mien and a heavy heart, because his old friend has purposely avoided him. Don't I know something of human nature, and how contaminating heaped-up coppers are? It is not every body that will bear even a moderate degree of wealth, particularly among those who have no other foundation to build their consequence upon. You are not wholly given over yet, Captain Flin, for there are evidences of self-accusings in your confession. "I'm sorry we cut poor Jerry, wife! It wouldn't hurt us to speak to him!" You'll come right again, man; we're sure of that. Mrs. Flin thinks it is well enough to show Jerry that their position in life is different from what it used to be, and she is afraid that if she condescends to notice him, even casually, it will be an excuse for him to send Duggy up to play with Sammy; and isn't she trying as hard as she can to make Sammy forgetful of the past, and mindful only of their present exaltation! The Captain acknowledges that it is a good idea to try to make something of Sammy, but he feels as if he is himself rather too old to remodel into a polished gentleman, after so long a probation of hardening and roughening too. He considers it a real trial to sit by with his great hands hanging by his side, while his wife talks to her grand acquaintances with a volubility that he never before imagined her possessed of; and he only misses still more the quid that used to keep his own tongue occupied. It is such a relief when the last call is made, and their steps are bent toward their own door. Mrs. Flin goes to her room to divest herself of some of her superfluous finery, and her husband quietly takes the opportunity to don his shaggy coat and light his pipe, and while she fancies him safe within their own walls, he is striding swiftly toward Jerry Doolan's to tell him what an old fool he made of himself in the morning, and to remove the heaviness from his friend's heart by an hour of familiar chat.

"Fact is, Jerry," says he, "wife may as well hang up her fiddle about me; can't make a whistle out of a pig's tail, man, I tell ye! She may fuss up the young'un as much as she's a mind to, but it'll be labor lost over an old chap like me. I feel more at home down here in the old place, and a plaguy sight more comfortable, than I do with all the nice fixins she's got together up yonder; and I'll tell you what it is, Jerry, we'll have many a smoke and talk yet, while the women folks do up their callin'. I've been once, and that's once too many, and it will take a taut pull to get me at that business again;" and the old sailor puffed away at his pipe, and congratulated himself in his firm resolution not to be whiffled about so easily as heretofore by his wife's ambitious whims.

A pretty time there was of it, though, when he reached home again, and Mrs. Flin pumped out of him where he had been. "It's all of no use, Jerold Flin," said she, "for me to be a strivin' and a strivin' to keep up the honor of the house, and you continually running back to your low associates." But seeing that her husband was not much affected by any of her appeals she turned her aspirations to the boy, whose life she almost teased out with her injunctions not to do this, for James Airly didn't, and to be sure to do that, because James Airly did. You need not exert yourself, Mrs. Flin, the boy's a "chip off the old block," and you can not make him otherwise. If you'll only try to implant within him good principles, and teach him that kindness of heart that always results in a true courtesy, it will benefit him more than all the fashionable notions you can gather from the external example of your neighbor Airly's children, I can assure you. This life is too noble and too dignified to be frittered away in vain attempts after a worthless outside. There is a genuine refinement and polish that comes from a strict adherence to the golden rule; this is what I would have you impress upon Master Sammy.



CHAPTER XXX.

"How d'ye do, Nannie?" said young Flin, as he met the girl walking with Dora. Sammy was on his way to school with his satchel on his arm, and could only stop a minute; but he always did like Nannie Bates, and he was glad to get an opportunity to tell her that he would see her sometimes if his mother would let him go down to the old house. "You see I have to study very hard, now," said he, with a disdainful toss of his books to the walk; "and I don't love it, Nannie, but mother says she wants me to be a great man one of these days, and that's the way to bring it about. I don't see though how it will do it, if I study all my life and don't learn any thing!"

"But," said Nannie, "you ought to try to improve since you have the means to get a good education; I wish mother was rich enough to send me to school all the time!" and she took the satchel and looked over the books with a wistful air, while Sammy amused himself with the child.

"There's the old bell," said he, as the first faint tones came gratingly to his ear, "and I suppose I must go; I'm sure I'd rather play than sit bending over my desk all day, but good-by, Nannie, when I'm bigger I'll come to see you as often as I've a mind;" and away he ran, while Nannie stood looking after him and wishing for the very privilege that he spurned.

It would have done her some good, but Mr. Bond thought "she knew enough already. She could read, write, and cipher, and didn't she know Pilgrim's Progress from beginning to end; that was all he had ever learned, and hadn't he gone through life well enough so far!"

You are a nice good-hearted jolly old man, Peter Bond, and your merry happy face and amiable temper will compensate for any deficiency in intellectual attainment; but Nannie Bates has a craving mind, and it must have nourishment. You don't know how early she is out of her bed, stowed away in Mrs. Minturn's attic with a book in her hand, nor how many pages she devours while nursing Dora. She does not neglect her little charge, but invents a thousand ways to keep her pleased and contented, while she gleans a little more knowledge every day. It's astonishing how much the girl has gained already, and she has a double motive in it, too; there's another mind waiting to have it imparted, and the two expand, night after night, as they give their gathered ideas to each other in the one short hour. It's not much time, but it accumulates, in one year, thirty days! think of it! Supposing it were spent in foolish talking and jesting, or in parading the walks with the other boys and girl! there would be thirty days wasted, and two minds robbed, and two intelligent faces despoiled of their chief attractions. Pat has grown quite fine-looking since the obtuse look has given place to such a sensible inquiring expression, and a soul speaks out from Nannie's eyes now that she bestows more culture upon the mental part.

You're right, Mr. Bond. It is not necessary for Nannie Bates to go to school! she will come out quite as bright as thousands who are kept at their books by a rod over their backs. She can not help acquiring, wherever she is! She appears very modest and very attentive to the child as she stands in the drawing-room of her mistress while Dora is exhibiting to the many guests; but her ear is becoming accustomed to a pure language, and her imitative powers soon adopt it. She will make a very lady-like little wife for somebody! Pat sees it, and does what he can to keep up with her. There'll be a struggle for her, though. Mike Dugan goes to Mrs. Minturn's very often, and whenever Nannie is sent to the kitchen on any mission there's a paper of candy for her, or a kind pleasant word, or a fond look, and she begins to think Mike a very nice sort of lad; when Pat finds how things are going, "he doesn't think he would put himself in Mike Dugan's way if he were Nannie! He's a great rough, red-headed, ugly fellow, and wouldn't make much of a husband for any girl!"

Nannie isn't thinking of husbands, and only wonders why Pat dislikes Mike so much when he is as kind to her as a brother would be. She doesn't think him ugly at all. She remembers that he has red hair. It doesn't strike her that Pat's is, if possible, a shade more fiery. She has never thought of comparing them, Mike is a clever fellow, and all the girls like him; but Pat, is Pat, and she would not have him like anybody else for all the world!



CHAPTER XXXI.

Mrs. Kinalden's face has grown long again, and the sour look has returned. It is strange what a gutta-percha capacity it has! Not so very strange though since she has not attended to the direction to purge herself from all internal sources of disquiet.

There isn't a person in the world that could maintain an equable temperament and expression, if every little outward vexation were suffered to penetrate him. Mrs. Kinalden has never learned to look within for her chief pleasure and enjoyment. Poor soul! it is little she would find to attract her in its present aspect, and that is the reason she does not care to enter the recesses of her heart; but depends upon the things that surround her for her delight; and they can not but fail to bring her any peace. If she would only consent to sweep and garnish the hidden chambers, and adorn them with the beauteous and goodly things which all may possess, she would find it very comforting to withdraw from other things, and spend her sweetest moments there, and the bright cheerful expression would be permanent then.

It is not easy to take this advice, however, and we give the landlady up as a hopeless case. Mr. Bond is the only person whose arguments weigh any thing with her, and he, indifferent man, does not even perceive his influence; but goes about his own business, as if there were no disconsolate widow pining away her desolate being for him. The boarders recognize the fact, and they enjoy the fun, and flatter her into the belief that the bachelor is willin', but too diffident to propose, and they tell her that she must not be shy—that she can reveal the state of her feelings in a delicate way—and, when they have every thing in a right train, they withdraw from the little parlor, as Mr. Bond comes in for a moment's conversation with the old lady. She is terribly perturbed now that the moment has really come, and the innocent man seeing her distress, and fearing that some serious evil has happened to occasion it, begs her to tell him what troubles her, assuring her of his sympathy and aid. He even places a chair near her, and seats himself so close to her that his hand rests upon the arm of the sofa where she is sitting.

She loses her fear then, and says, in a tremulous tone, she has been thinking of Mr. Kinalden. Mr. Bond appreciates that. Is not there a kindred spirit in his own thoughts every moment of his life? Mrs. Kinalden begins to rise in his estimation, and he chides himself for ever imagining her untrue to her husband's memory; so he sighs, and listens as she goes on to say that she used to have scruples about throwing off her widowhood; but her days are very lonely, and she might be induced "to change her mind". Mr. Bond puts her down a peg again; but feeling that he must congratulate her if she has really determined to marry, he tells her he is really very happy! and this encourages her to speak openly of him as the object of her affectionate designs.

There is a suppressed giggle in an adjoining room as the quick tread of the bachelor is heard upon the stairs; but he does not feel like laughing. He is shocked! he is indignant, that any one should ever dream of his being faithless to his early love!

How he came face to face with the cherished portrait, he does not know! That something strange has occurred he is sure; yet he stands there in his bewildered mood, a long, long time, wondering whether he is in or out of the body, and why Betty Lathrop could not have been spared to cheer his declining years? What! Peter Bond is not sad!

Isn't it enough to depress any one to be surprised by such a novel and unwelcome announcement when his own heart is dead to all but the one beloved?

Of course Mr. Bond could not remain in Mrs. Kinalden's house after this, and so he took a room in the same house with his young friends, and Nannie's mother went in every day to keep it in order, and it soon grew to be as dear as the old spot, for the same furniture was there, and the same face upon the canvas.



CHAPTER XXXII.

The good man can now make one of the party that assembles every evening in the pleasant attic. He has not the distance to keep him away, nor the weather, nor a feeble state of health, and right glad he is that every obstacle to so welcome a privilege is removed. A stranger, used to the polish and luxury of a different sphere, would wonder how such content and happiness could reign amid apparent lowliness and effort, for although things present a neat and thrifty aspect in the little room, it is evident that much toil is necessary in order to maintain even this degree of prosperity. The busy fingers of the mother are ever engaged with the needle, and the child is separated from her home by a needful economy; yet there is a real joy in every moment spent together, which might well excite the envy as well as the curiosity of a spectator. People are so long a time learning that harmony is of more value in a household than thousands of gold or silver—that "a dinner of herbs, where love is, is better than the stalled ox and hatred therewith." Perhaps if they could look in upon some of their wealthy neighbors, who are rich in every thing but the blessed element that money can not purchase, and then return to the humble place that overfloweth with love and peace, they would be ready to acknowledge wherein true happiness consists, and to search for it with as much ardor as they now do for an increased treasury or a higher station. Mrs. Bates never troubled herself as to who was better off than she in point of tangible good, but she perfectly reveled in the sunny atmosphere of her pleasant home, endeavoring so to fix its present blessedness that no outward vicissitudes would be able to affect it.

She had no verbal eloquence with which to commend a contented and glad disposition to the members of her household, but her example was more forcible than precept, and there needed no other adviser. It was not always so; Nannie can look back to a sorrowful period, when even the hope-light was hidden from them, and they all feel that the leaven of the kind, and Christian, and benevolent heart has exercised its changing and salutary power among them.

Well may you look about upon the group before you with a placid feeling, Peter Bond. Isn't it worth a few more years severance from the spirit that awaiteth thee elsewhere, to see so noble a work—the result of thy instrumentality? It was a strange Providence to thee that raised thee up from the jaws of death and set thee upon thy strong feet again; but to question its wisdom was perfect folly—that thou feelest now as thy usefulness becomes apparent even to thy humility.

Nannie wonders what subject is agitating her friend, as his face grows thoughtful and serious; but she does not interrupt his meditations, for she has many a moment of quiet reflection that she wouldn't have broken for all the world, so she keeps very still until her hour has expired, and then says "good-night," so gently that he is not disturbed.

Mr. Bond goes to his room, with puss sauntering after, and Mrs. Bates indulges herself in a cat-nap in her chair, while Pat is enjoying the moonlight walk to Mrs. Minturn's with Nannie. He is as happy as happy can be until they reach the house, and Mike Dugan confronts them with a gift for Nannie. It's all spoiled now! Pat frowns upon Mike, and making a gruff adieu to Nannie, walks back again, with an uncomfortable feeling as if all the world is against him; and Nannie puts the unopened parcel upon the table, and cries herself asleep, with Pat's daguerreotype under her pillow and his rough adieu in her heart.

Poor children! it's the same the world over—smiles and tears, and smiles again; heart-breakings and heart-mendings; quarrels and reconciliations. There's no help for it; you must have your own experience!



CHAPTER XXXIII.

Mike, with his hands in his pockets, strolls homeward, whistling a merry tune as he thinks of the smile upon the young face that haunts him. He does not fancy there will be much difficulty in winning Nannie Bates. "All the girls like him, and why shouldn't she?" Mike has a tolerable favorable opinion of himself. He keeps a livery-stable in —— street, and takes the girls out to drive, and he flourishes his whip, and trots his fast horses along the roads with the best of them. There is a bravado sort of way about him that tells among his companions, who look up to him with a certain degree of veneration, as a being of rather a superior order to themselves. He twists his red hair over a hot iron till it stands up all about his head in little bits of curls; and he has grown a flaming mustache that is really quite killing among his female acquaintances. No wonder he is so easy concerning Nannie Bates! He couldn't imagine that Pat Rourke, with his uncouth ways and brusque appearance could presume to rival him in her heart! So he enters the stable with a joyous spring, and goes the rounds cheerfully, patting Berk's back, and speaking pleasantly to Roscoe, and giving an ear of corn to Arab, and a little more hay to all.

There's no doubt of his supremacy there—the grateful animals neigh, and paw, and rub their noses fondly upon his shoulder as he passes fearlessly around them. If Nannie could see his devotion to the helpless and dumb it would awaken within her a far deeper regard than the combined results of curling-tongs and pomatum, or the outward flourish and glitter of his equestrian establishment.

Mike has a tender heart; any body can see that who visits his nice stables, and looks upon the plump, well-cared-for horses. He has a spice of vanity; the girls are responsible, in a measure, for this, for they have flattered him until he begins to think he may be good enough for any of them; but he only thinks of Nannie Bates as a fit and desirable companion for him, and he works diligently to get the means to buy them a home. Pat strives, with the same end constantly in view, and Nannie smiles on them both with her winning, happy face, never dreaming herself the motive-power to such untiring energy. She wonders why Pat puts so much of his earnings in the savings' bank, contenting himself with his old suit, which has grown quite rusty from such continual wear; and when Mike whispers to her, in a sly way, that he is trying to get a home to offer a certain fine girl that he wants for a wife, Nannie shakes her finger witchingly at Biddy, as if to say, "I've found you out now." Mike does not relish her obtuseness, but she seems so timid and shrinking, that he is backward about speaking his sentiments plainly. Besides, he has a real affection for her, and that always brings a certain reserve with it. What in the world is he to do? That rascally Pat has such a decided advantage in seeing her every day, and he can see that he has a great deal of influence over her. He does not really think she can hesitate between them, for Pat is so rough in his dress, and has such red hair, and straight at that; and Mike pushes his fingers through the bright curls, and gives another look at himself in the little mirror that hangs in his room in the stable. The self-complacency melts away, as the object becomes dearer, and there is a slight fear that some obstacle may spring up between him and his hopes. He'll risk but he can overcome it, though, but it would be pleasanter to have the way smooth and easy. There's Molly Ryan would give her right hand for him, and Katie Doyle says he's the only boy she will ever marry, and Helen Dhue left her last place because the mistress would not permit him to stay later than ten o'clock when he went to see her. "Oh! there were girls enough ready!" and he snapped his fingers at the willing ones that were in his mind, and dwelt yearningly upon the doubtful and uncertain. There's nothing strange in that—every body does so.



CHAPTER XXXIV.

Time goes very fleetly where there is a real and substantial joy, a happiness that mocks all outward changes. It was thus in the humble home of Nannie Bates' mother, and also in the magnificent abode of the Minturn's, whose hearts were untarnished by the constant in-pouring of a lavish opulence.

Four years had elapsed since Nannie found shelter under that pleasant roof, and little Dora had learned to cling to her with an unwonted affection. Mrs. Minturn, too, had such a perfect confidence in the young nurse, and could trust the child to her care and love, as if she were a fond sister. She knows that Dora holds the dead Winnie's place in the warm heart, and that no word of bitterness or touch of anger can ever proceed from the faithful girl. She has just been watching them at play upon the walk, and has noticed Nannie's patience, at some petulant act of the child, and she is rejoicing in the treasure she possesses in Nannie, when Mrs. Bates requests to see her. She has come to take Nannie home. Mr. Bond is ill again, and the girl is needed to nurse him. She grieves very much that she is obliged to tear her from so nice a home; but the good man is entitled to her grateful services, and she has no alternative. Her own hands are ready and glad to wait upon the sick man, but he says "bring Nannie;" and she can not tell him no.

So the nurse must go; and she cries herself almost ill by the side of the sweet child, whose arm is still around her neck in its unconscious slumbers. It seems quite like laying Winnie away again, to turn from the little one that had so long been as her own. There is a duty in it, however, and she sees it too plainly to try to evade it, so she disengages herself softly from the clinging arm, and kissing the little placid face, goes down to the kitchen to see Mike, who had sent up expressly for her. She had not the heart to refuse, when he had always been so kind to her, and perhaps she would not soon meet him again to thank him, for she knew Pat would prevent it if he could. Mike pretended not to notice her downcast looks, although he did perceive that something had occurred to sadden her, and he had a strong desire to comfort her. If it had been one of his horses in trouble, there would have been no difficulty in providing a remedy; but Nannie Bates was quite another thing; and the more he tried to find a solace, the more at a loss was he. Biddy had gone out on an errand, and all the other servants were absent, and he felt that it might be a good time to tell Nannie who it was that he was getting a house for; but the words stuck by the way, and it was in vain to try to force them out, they would not come at all.

Nannie looked at him in wonder, and almost in affright as he clutched at his blazing head in the very desperation of his feelings, and she could not account for the difference in his demeanor. Mike was usually such a merry good companion. Perhaps it was herself that scattered her sadness and dullness all about her; or was Mike sick? She ventured to ask him this.

"No—yes—no, he wasn't sick; he thought perhaps he wasn't so well as he was; but he guessed he'd feel better by 'm by; he didn't know what ailed him!"

Nannie told him she was to leave for home in the morning, and she did not know how long it would be before she should see him again, and she expressed her kind feelings toward him, and her appreciation of all that he had done for her; and she gave him a little heart made of bright silks, and stuck all round with pins, as a parting memento. It was not coquetish in her, for she had too much honest simplicity for that; but Mike was emboldened by it to move his seat from the other side of the room to the end of the table where she sat weaving a cord chain, and he had just taken up the work to look at it, when Pat came blustering in. He had seen Mike through the window, and his manner as he spoke to Nannie, was hurried and excited, and betrayed a tinge of anger. Nannie was as pleasant as ever, though sad at her approaching separation from Dora, and her gentle mistress; and she tried to draw the lads into an amicable conversation. It was all in vain on Pat's side though; and both were so strange and still that it was growing very uncomfortable for them all, and when Biddy and one of the other servants came in, Nannie took her work and left the room with a faint good night to both the discomfited youths.

"Tell mother I'll be home early, Pat," said she, as she passed him on her way to the door.

Mike arose and followed her into the basement hall, and handed her a parcel, which his timidity had thus far prevented his offering; and he so far overcame his bashfulness, as to tell her he should go for her to ride with him sometime.

"Not as you know of!" said Pat to himself, as he overheard the lad's plans, "it'll be many a day before Nannie Bates sits beside Mike Dugan, I'm thinking!" and he rushed past the couple like a madman, and hastened down the street, never stopping until he reached the attic room.

Then sinking into a chair by the window, he gazed out upon the bay whose waves murmured and foamed in the freshening breeze—a fit emblem of his agitated mood! "It's well," thought he, "that I didn't touch him; there might have been consequences! and 'tis better that I came directly home!"

There was not much rest for Pat that night! Every time he lost himself; there were visions of a young girl dashing along the streets, with Mike Dugan holding the reins of a restive horse, and as he attempted to reach the maiden, she would smile sweetly upon her companion, and turn from him with a contemptuous expression. Poor Pat! What a world of useless sighing and trouble! Nannie sits meantime in her chamber working upon the chain for a surprise to thee on the morrow, and her heart's honest love is inwoven with every knot; until there is not a link from beginning to end but is fraught with holiest feelings and wishes!



CHAPTER XXXV.

Mr. Bond's pale face brightens up as Nannie enters the sick room, and he seems to rally again, but the physician says there is no hope of his restoration. He has failed very rapidly. A paralytic stroke has deprived him of the use of his right side, and it is very evident that he will not make one of the pleasant party in the sunny attic again. It is a great happiness to the weary man to feel that his work upon earth is almost over. He has done it more than cheerfully, even gladly! but he is not sorry to rest from it now, there's a great reward coming—besides the face of his merciful and loving Father, there is another, the gift of that same Father whom they both ever reverenced, that is winning him with its seraphic expression, and he is quite ready to go. There are some things to be settled, though, while he has the ability to do it, and he calls Pat and Nannie to him, and places the girl's hand in the lad's, blessing them doubly—first with the fadeless benison that cometh from above, sometimes through the petitions of a departing and righteous soul—and then with an earthly dower from the purse that had never been closed to the poor and needy, neither had unwisely nor imprudently emptied itself upon them. There was nothing else for Peter Bond to do but to compose himself, and peacefully await the parting moment. There were very profitable hours spent beside the sick man's bed; hours that left their impress upon the after-life of Mrs. Bates and her two children, for Pat is as Nannie, now, the minister has made them man and wife beside the couch of their benefactor. It was by his express wish; what if they are young! So much the more closely will the sacred bonds be interlaced until no earthly power can loose them.

They demur, on account of the unseemliness of a joyous ceremony at a time, to them, so sad and trying; but it is a last request, and they yield. It is very hard to think that their kind friend is passing from them, and that they have no power to detain him; but so it is, and he falls asleep with his closing eyes fixed upon the face on the canvas, and the beloved name on his lips. There are a good many in to look upon him as he lies there so majestically calm. There is such a sublimity in the noble countenance now stamped with so sacred a seal!

There are no relations there, for he has outlived all of kindred blood; but there are others crowding around to get a parting glimpse of the kind face that has cheered them through many an adverse season, and the family of his adoption leave him not until the trees that shade the maiden's grave wave also over his, and the fragrance of the flowers which his own hand hath planted on the green hill-side afar off, breath upon the tombs of both united.



CHAPTER XXXVI.

It is a very quiet subdued sort of night. A solemn stillness broods over the attic room where the bereaved trio are gathered. It is August again, and two of the group recall a bitter evening one August, long ago, when the pitiless rain cast them shelterless into the street—and their grateful hearts dwell upon the peace and comfort that resulted from that one, apparently adverse, providence.

The other member of the little circle dwells upon the single kind act that made his subsequent good fortune. There is no doubt in either mind of the especial guardianship of an Almighty power. Every little blessing, every happy consequence from what, at first, seemed an evil, is plainly before them, and the review of the few past years is working out a settled confidence in the over-ruling Hand.

Mrs. Bates thinks of the hours of heaviness when, a poor huckster woman, she trudged wearily along with her loaded basket, and of the many times she sought the miserable cellar without a morsel of bread for her famishing children, and her heart clings fondly to the memory of the real friend who wrought so glorious a change in her condition. Nannie goes back to the pinched and pallid infant in the darkened room, and the days and weeks of sadness spent away from the light and air, and she comes again to the happy home, and the angel sister, and the lovely little Dora—and a tear moistens her eye as she feels that the kind heart that has so long imparted to their life its purest pleasures has forever ceased to beat. Pat is more occupied with the bright present than with past ills. The vile place where he once groveled is erased from his mind by the hallowed sanctuary that is now his Christian home, and the blessed consciousness that Nannie Bates is his, now and forever, banishes every feeling of sadness, leaving room for no regrets save the one that Mr. Bond is hidden from them, to be seen no more on earth.

Pat has acquired such an universal benevolence since Nannie is so fast bound unto him, that even Mike Dugan is welcomed into their little circle with a true cordiality.

Mike is not alone, however, when he comes to sit an hour with his old friend, Nannie; but is accompanied by the blushing Helen Dhue whom he calls "my wife."



ARCHIBALD MACKIE,

THE LITTLE CRIPPLE.



ARCHIBALD MACKIE.



CHAPTER I.

"Oh! oh! mamma, dear, isn't it a pity he isn't a rich, boy like Cousin Willie? then he could have a carriage to take him about in, and nice clothes to cover up the hump on his back, and a pretty cane with a silver band every little way, and the people wouldn't push him about so, and call him 'ugly rascal,' as that great man did just now."

Kittie Fay's mother had noticed the sad object that was slowly moving up the street before her, trying in vain to keep his clumsy crutch out of the way of the passers-by, and she had heard the rude and inhuman ejaculation of the nobly-formed specimen, whose inner soul must, she felt, be far more hideous than the stricken lad's outward being, since it could so cruelly taunt one on whom the hand of God had been placed in wisdom.

"Perhaps not 'a pity,' Kittie, darling," replied she, as she quickened her steps in order to overtake the boy. "We will try to find out whether it is or not, and you shall some day answer the question for yourself;" and she laid her hand gently upon the head of the poor little cripple, who had halted that he might get breath to proceed to his home. She was almost startled at the sweet yet sad face that was upturned to her gaze. There seemed such a depth of feeling in the blue eye, and such a calm and hallowed expression upon the pale features, that she hesitated for a moment, as if studying how to address herself to the lad. He was not like a common pauper, although the scanty rags scarcely covered his unsightly figure, and the old hat served only to keep the scorching sun from the very top of his head. He had not asked for money, and he shrunk away from the touch of the lady as if there were degradation in it, and leaned upon his crutch, with the sweet yet reproachful look still fixed upon her.

Perhaps it was a consciousness of the blessed sympathy that welled up from her motherly heart that relaxed his features into a half smile, and moved him to a half glad, half sad emotion; perhaps the memory of as dear a face that once beamed upon him with the same holy tenderness, stirred the long-time quiet depths within his young bosom, and sent forth the tear that lay upon his thin cheek! At any rate, the shyness and misery had vanished, and he stood intently gazing into the face of the lady until he seemed to have forgotten his misfortunes in the happiness of that one sacred moment. The gentle voice recalled him to a sense of his position, and he sighed heavily as she said, "Will you tell me where you live, my son? and may I sometimes go to see you with my little daughter?"

"My son, my son!" that was too much, for the pent-up torrent, and the poor lad burst into an agony of weeping. Years had passed since so blessed a sound had fallen upon his heart, and it awakened so long a train of fond recollections, henceforth to be only as a departed dream, that he could have no power to restrain the grief that struggled for vent. It wasn't the pity that moved him—oh! no. There was never an hour in the day, when he was exposed to the observation of his fellow-mortals, that some expression of commiseration did not reach his sensitive ear, and many a stranger would stop him with the words of self-complacent condolence that would send the hot blood over his white forehead, and excite in him a bitter feeling of rebellion against the Providence that ordereth all things aright. He could distinguish between a passing glance of loathing and contempt, and the heartfelt look of sympathetic sorrow, and his isolated spirit grasped at the slightest evidence of a kindred feeling, and treasured it up as the brightest and most precious of gifts.

Mrs. Fay was troubled by the tears she had so unwittingly occasioned, and was about to move quietly away, as she saw no prospect of an immediate answer to her question, and the people were beginning to be attracted to the spot by the scene, when the boy pointed in the direction of the bay, and said, tremulously, "I stay with my grandmother down there in a small house by the water, lady; and we shall both be glad to see you if you please to come;" and, as if fearing another glance, he hobbled off as fast as his infirmities would allow, and was soon out of their sight.

It was hard to go along day by day, with his withered limb and his protruding back, in the midst of God's fair creation, and feel himself an anomaly there. Shut up his ears and soul as he would against the coarse gibes that were often uttered at his expense, he could not fail to perceive the strange difference between himself and the crowd that hurried by him, nor to take in the wondrous beauty that would sometimes flit before his longing vision. The very thought that in his own person he was denied the excellence and majesty of a perfect development enhanced so much the more the value of these perfections in his estimation, and helped him to feel that of all the objects in the wide world, he was the most horribly repulsive. He did not mind the brutal sneers of the rabble that surrounded his grandmother's hovel on this day, however, for the sweet lady and the beauteous child were constantly before him, and the look so like his departed mother's; that had penetrated his inmost soul, exalted him far above the trivialities of earth, and he entered the door with a face so radiant, that his old grandmother cried out in surprise,

"Why, Archie, my boy, what's the matter with ye now? you look as if the angels had been with ye."

"And so they have, grandmother," replied the boy. "Do you remember what dear mother used to tell us? That all were God's angels that do His will; and what can be His will if not the outpouring of kindness and love upon all the world?"

"It is strange, child!" continued the old woman, raising her hands in utter amazement; "last night, and almost all the nights before it, the cloud has been upon ye, and to-night I'm frightened by the change," and she sat down with her hands folded upon her lap, not daring to turn from the lad "for fear he was crazed," as she said to herself.

"I know I have been dark, and gloomy, and wicked," replied he, "for I was maddened by the foolish and thoughtless; but I learned to-day that there are those who can forget the body and its defects, and see the real and perfect man that is hidden beneath. No, no, grandmother, I do not any longer wish to be otherwise than as God has made me, and I'll be valued yet for something better than this shell!" and the boy-man went away to his humble room, and shut himself in to dream out his future, while his bewildered grandparent wondered within herself what it all could mean.

There was little in that carpetless room, with its narrow cot, and its one chair, and its small window with the cracked and puttied panes, to inspire hopefulness or even cheerfulness, if the spirit looks to external objects for its coloring; and yet the one eye that pierced within the bosom of the solitary lad, saw the blessed light that was beginning to dawn there, and the invisible hand that so affectionately helpeth us in our necessity, was stretched forth to lift him out of the despondency that had hitherto pressed him continually downward.

The sun was near its setting, and the evening was coming on with its slow, midsummer pace, and he had sat for one whole hour beside the window, with bowed head, and clasped hands building up a castle, which, perchance might fall; perchance might resist the shock of ages, and prove the admiration of every beholder. What mattered it to him, so long as it served to divert him from the one baneful subject—his distorted self—and place him for the time being at least, in an atmosphere of glory and delight! It was better by far than the boisterous mirth of the rude boys whose riotous sport filled the open space near his dwelling with revolting and uncouth sounds; and these silent and intense yearnings after something higher and better than his present state, were almost sure to result in some real and noble achievement.

Not much could be found in any of his surroundings to encourage his lofty aspirations; what with the coarse father whose only mastery was of the trowel by day, and at night the pipe; and the simple grandmother who dwelt with wonder, and almost with alarm on every progressive step of the boy. As he looked from the small loop-hole that admitted the light and air to his humble room, there was naught before him save blocks of brick and stone, with a large square of ground intervening, which was unfenced and covered with rough stone, and the refuse from the adjoining houses; but that same uncultivated plot insured to him a wide expanse above, whither his longing soul often turned for the beauty and power that it met not on earth. The bay was shut off from his view by the broad and high masonry which his wealthy neighbors had erected between him and his chief joy, and the only glimpse of water visible to him now was a stagnant pond, on which dirty and ill-mannered urchins were constantly sailing their boats of paper or wood. One would have thought that there was nothing to attach him to so barren and unattractive a spot, and yet the greatest of all his anxieties was lest amid the encroachments of an ambitious and increasing population, the miserable hut that had become a palace to him in its hallowed associations, would fall under the ban of some authoritative power, and himself be cast forth into some new place where memory and affection had no hold.

The extensive traveler, whose mind has an unbounded range, can scarcely conceive of the immense value of a limited space to his equally acquisitive though less favored brother. Thousands, whose feet had wandered amid all the wonders of the earth, came back to their every-day plodding life with vacant brains and unexpanded souls, while Archibald Mackie, in his non-suggestive hovel, gathered big thoughts and exalted ideas, and grew majestic in intellect, even as he was diminutive in his outward frame. Not a stone upon the waste before him but could tell him its thrilling tale of weary heads pillowed thereon, when all other resting-places failed; of scanty meals spread out upon them for lack of a social board; and of forlorn and forsaken ones, sighing out their bitter plaints unto these flinty auditors for want of more attentive hearers. Not a block in the noble structures all about but could bear witness to many a sorrowing soul whose drooping body was sustained only by the thought of the needy ones at home, whose wants gave energy to every effort. Not a child amid the group that frequented the common play-ground near but spoke to him, either of blessed ties, and hallowed sympathies, and tender care, and watchful training, or of a broken circle, and chilled feelings, and an utter destitution of interest or culture. But these were all wearisome to him compared to the splendors that were revealed from the heavenly creation, where his gaze was so lovingly fixed on this evening, after meeting Mrs. Fay and her little daughter Kittie.

He could remember his mother more by the endearing fondness lavished upon him from his birth, than by any distinct impression of her features, but this night her face took the form of the strange lady's in his imagination, and made him sadder than ever as he looked upward to meet it.

"Wherefore, oh! wherefore wert thou taken from me, my mother!" said he, as he bowed still lower before God, as if crushed beneath the weight of so mighty a sorrow. "How can I be any thing without thy gentle guidance, and with none to help me out of my ignorance and nothingness?"

"With God nothing is impossible!" came the answer from his mother's Bible, which he had opened to the place that her own hand had marked, and Archie lifted up his heart and his head, and went out at the summons of his grandmother.



CHAPTER II.

"What can I do for you, my darling?" said Mrs. Lincoln, as she bent over a languid form that was extended upon the sofa in front of an open door. The perfume of rare flowers was wafted to them from the cultivated borders without, and the rich foliage cast a soft shade upon the lawn, shutting out the intensity of the summer sun, and making the air bland and grateful. Pet hounds were gamboling about the room, and games and toys of every description were scattered all about in the greatest profusion. A stuffed chair, on rollers, was near the boy, and a garden chair stood upon the steps, ready for immediate use, and every thing around seemed fitted to minister to a diseased body and a capricious will. The lad drew pettishly away from the caress of his fond mother, as he replied,

"It isn't of any use to do any thing at all for me; there's no happiness, anyhow! Why couldn't I have been like other boys, and not so ugly as to have to hive myself up here all the time for fear of ridicule?" and he threw his head back upon the cool hair pillows and murmured something which his mother did not hear, excepting that the last word was die. She had often heard the wicked wish that his life might not be prolonged; but how to lead him from the constant contemplation of his deformity so as to make him resigned, if not cheerful, had, as yet, been an unavailing study.

The pampering the luxurious tastes and propensities of her son had only fostered in him a craving and dissatisfied spirit, and engendered the feeling that every thing was to bend to his demands however foolish or extravagant. It was a pitiable sight! that gentle and fond mother vainly giving every energy to the effort to soothe and interest her son, while he, seemingly unconscious of her unwearied exertions, turned petulantly from all her kindness and love, and buried himself in gloom and fretfulness. "This thing is intolerably hot!" said he, as he threw back the collar of his fine white linen tunic, and bared his throat to the breeze that came faintly through the open windows; "I haven't felt comfortable to-day, and the night promises nothing better." Mrs. Lincoln took a broad fan from the mantle, and, seating herself by the youth, pushed aside the heavy hair from his brow and quietly fanned him, while she tried to draw his thoughts away from himself, and fix them upon something pleasing and instructive; but the mood was perverse, and she was about to despair when two little feet came patting through the hall, and Kittie Fay burst suddenly into the room.

"Oh! Willie," said she, bounding up to the couch, and kissing her cousin twenty times over; "you've no idea what a beautiful home you have, and what a happy boy you are! only think, I've seen somebody, just now, that had just such a thing on his back as you have; but it stuck almost through his ragged coat, and he had old ugly crutches, and a shabby hat, and he says he lives in a small house down by the bay, and Willie, dear, I'm going with mother, some day, to see him, and you shall go too, if you will, maybe it will make you sorry for him, so that you will give him something pretty from this nice room!" and the child's eyes wandered over the beautiful articles that were strewn around, and her little hand lay softly upon the forehead of the boy, who looked upon her with something of pleasure in his usually dissatisfied face. "Auntie Lincoln," continued she, leaving her cousin and leaning upon her aunt's knee; "please take me up to the big window in the study, I believe we can see that little hut from there, for there's an old woman comes out the door sometimes, and I guess that's Archie's grandmother."

"What does the child mean?" asked Mrs. Lincoln of her sister, who that moment entered the room; "she seems quite in earnest about a poor child whom she says she met in the street, and who is afflicted somewhat like our Willie. Is it so, Mary?"

"Ah, yes, and such a sad, sweet face, I shall not soon lose the impression. Such perfect patience and resignation! It made me really forget his crooked frame. Surely, dear Sarah, God makes us all equal, and it is ourselves alone that create a disparity. The calmness and Christian beauty that shone out of that poor boy's face, more than compensates for the distortion of his frame. We will find him out, if you please, some time, and I am sure we shall not repent it;" and Mrs. Fay cast an intelligent glance toward her impatient nephew, which was understood and appreciated by his mother, who gladly acquiesced in the proposal to seek out the strange lad.

Kittie, meantime had glided quietly from the room, and ensconced herself in a deep window in the library, where she stood gazing out upon a small hut that stood just visible in the distance. The night was bright and clear, and by the light of the moon that illumined the vacant space around the hovel, she was able to distinguish perfectly every object. The shabby group still gathered about the stagnant pond pushing out their little crafts, or wading in to guide them with greater skill, and now and then a coarse-looking woman would loiter across the space, and with no gentle hand, pull her struggling offspring homeward. The scene was a revolting one to the child, and she was turning to leave the spot, with one last look at the hut, when she perceived the old woman who had so often before arrested her attention, outside the door, and Archie himself near her, while a shaggy-haired man, with a pipe in his mouth sauntered back and forth in front of the house, occasionally stopping to address himself to one or the other of his companions. Kittie bestowed but a passing glance upon the woman and the man, and bent her fixed and interested gaze upon the boy, who sat upon the low step with his forehead upon his hand, and his sad figure almost doubled together. It was but a moment, however, before the head was raised, and the face turned toward the heavens, with a look so full of reverence and earnestness, that the delicate child shrunk away from her secret observatory, with the feeling that it was a sacrilege to witness the poor lad's sacred emotions, and with suffused eyes and a throbbing heart she left the spot in order to return to her petted cousin.

"I've seen him, Willie," said she, half lying across the heavy pillows and putting her mouth close to the youth's ear, "and he seemed so sad, and yet so happy! You wouldn't like it at all down in that mean place with such a looking man and woman to live with, would you, Willie?"

"I don't like any thing, Kittie, mean or not mean," muttered the boy. "To be sure," he continued, seeing her surprised expression, as her eyes fell upon the many comforts and luxuries with which he was surrounded, "to be sure I live in a great house and have plenty of money and books, and toys, and such things; but Kittie, what if you had this great hump on your back, so that every body would look at you whenever you were out, and pity and loathe you! I don't believe you would be any happier than I. I don't care, I wish I was dead, anyhow!" and Willie buried his head in the pillows while his little cousin tried to soothe and comfort him.

"Perhaps I should think of it too much, Willie," said she, "and then it would make me fretful and wretched; but mamma says if we fix our minds on something pleasant, we shall forget the pains and troubles of life; and only think, Willie, this is all the ill you have, while Archibald Mackie is poor, and ragged, and an orphan besides!"

"Who's Archibald Mackie?" asked her cousin, "and what have I to do with him?—'tis as much as I can do to think of myself!"

"That's the very thing, Willie," replied the little reasoner. "If you would only try to put your mind on some body or something else, may be you wouldn't remember that you are at all unlike other people. I know mamma and Auntie Lincoln talk so about you very often when they are together; but I didn't tell you about Archie. You see, I've found out where he lives—in that hut that you can see from the library window, and he's the boy that we are to visit some day, dear Willie;" and Kittie fondled her deformed cousin, smoothing down the obtrusive hump, as if it were a graceful and comely thing.



CHAPTER III.

One little bit of candle, and a few old school-books, and a mind swelling with big desires after knowledge, were beside the small window, long after the midnight hour had struck and the noisy city was hushed into a comparative calm. It did not signify that the bowed frame was wearied by a day of physical toil, or that the aching head pleaded for "tired nature's sweet restorer," or that a voice from the outer room came often to his ear, with the petition that he would no longer rob himself of his needful rest; there were new and holy impulses that refused to be put aside, and hungerings and thirstings that must be satisfied, and not until the candle gave out its last flicker did Archibald Mackie spare himself the pittance of slumber that was to prepare him for another toilsome day. Even in his fitful and nervous sleep was he mentally solving some abstruse problem, or following out some philosophical train of reasoning, while all the time in his dreams the strange lady would urge him onward in his tasks, smiling upon him with the sweet and gentle face. Forgetful of the simple hovel and its uncouth accompaniments, unmindful of the deformed figure, and the tattered raiment, and the taunts and jeers of an unfeeling multitude, the poor boy reveled amid visions of knowledge, and wisdom, and beauty, and love, as happy as if an angel form were resting where the hideous body lay.

The morning beams struggled feebly in at the little window as Archie tore himself from his pillow, again to apply himself to his books. It was such a wonder to him that he could for so long a period have cast them away for less satisfying pleasures. The bright dawn, too, was so filled with peace and purity, and he had hitherto dozed it off, never thinking that he had lost the most precious part of his existence. The air came in so refreshingly upon his brow, and the open space had not one revolting object to distract him from hallowed and exalted thoughts. The only sound that reached him was the slow and measured breathing of his grandmother through the thin partition, or the nasal performances of his father from the loft above. Archie's room was the one his mother had occupied ever since his remembrance, and miserable and empty as it was, to him there was an atmosphere of the purest delight. All other spots were trivial and commonplace compared to the one where the maternal blessing had been pronounced, and the maternal breath had ceased; and hardened indeed must the heart have been that could resist his desire that this one sacred spot might be consecrated alone to him. Here were the books from which her thin and tremulous fingers had pointed out to him the rudiments of that knowledge which his spirit so longed to compass. Here were gathered the few mementoes of her maidenhood—the trinkets from her early schoolmates, and the love-tokens from her rough but kind and affectionate husband—all disposed by her own hand, within the tiny cupboard, that came to be a sealed place to every eye but that of the child, whose mature mind could take in all their value. These alone, of all the objects about him, linked him to the dead mother. To be sure his fond old grandmother doted on the boy in her childish and simple way, and his father gave him all the love of which his nature was capable, but there seemed to him no connection between the spiritual image that so continually hovered about his pathway, and the coarse and material beings who seemed only to live for the things that give life and support to the body; and his high communings and yearnings found no sympathy in either of his well-meaning but obtuse relatives. To look upon the lad's occasional bursts of enthusiasm with a wondering and frightened stare, was all that the poor old woman could do to show that she even observed them, and as for the father, it was quite impossible to beguile him from his old and commonplace notions. The idea of listening to reading, or to the explanation of any of the mysteries of science, formed no part of his mental machinery.

"Book larnin'll do well enough for you, Archie, my boy," he would say; "but this thing," holding up his trowel in a fond sort of way, "has found me a good living for many a year, and as for amusement, my pipe keeps my mind off the trouble, so don't pester yourself trying to turn me into a new way, child, the old one suits me better!" It was not well for the imaginative and sickly youth to be left to his own wild and untutored fancies; but there was no help for it now, and he gave himself up to his studies and his dreams, looking no longer for sympathy from those around him, but gathering inward strength and self-dependence with every struggle for the mastery over his sensitive and morbid nature.

Little, however, as there was in Archie's home to aid him in his efforts after a higher attainment, he was not without a hidden but blessed influence. His mother's grave was just without the city, in the beautiful cemetery, and thither his weary feet often wandered when he was spared from his labor early enough, or on the precious Sunday, the day of days, especially to the poor. Glorious monuments of the most elaborate workmanship, temples, and majestic columns, and angel figures, were all nothing to Archie compared to the simple mound that told him of an undying love for the lonely and crippled one. No marble arose there in wonderful grace and beauty, no reclining seraph imaged the departed saint; but low down, beneath the green turf was the heart that leaped at the advent of her first-born son, and the eye that overlooked the blemish that all other eyes seemed to dwell upon, and the hand that was laid upon his head in the last sad moment. Naught else was needed to the few souls that cared for her memory. Was she not ever before them in the garb of purity and love! and yet among the boy's visions was a sacred spot remote from the common ground where necessity had placed his idolized parent, and a slab that should speak of a son's gratitude, and shrubs and flowers around to breathe their sweet odor above the lowly bed. So long as his mother's memory was kept fresh and green within him Archibald Mackie was not cut off wholly from the companionship and sympathy that is a need of every nature.



CHAPTER IV.

The afternoon had been uncommonly sultry and oppressive, so that even the plants and trees appeared to droop and wither, and all about the city were hot and tired people lagging homeward as if every energy were utterly exhausted. Archie had been working unusually hard, so that the old pain had seized his back again, making him miserably despondent lest he should be wholly crippled, and thrown quite broken and helpless upon his struggling relatives, and he was panting toward the quarter of the city where his shelter was, with slow and weary steps, when suddenly, as he passed a bright saloon, he heard a joyous cry of "Oh! mamma, just look, there he is again!" and before he could get away, the pleasant face of the lady was bent upon him from the window of the carriage that stood before the door, and she motioned him to her.

Perhaps he would have heeded her summons if he had not seen an impatient and scornful countenance peeping curiously through the side-curtain. May be it was but his native pride that induced him to press onward with only a quiet and polite recognition of her notice.

"There, Willie, you've driven him away," said Kittie, frowning upon her cousin reproachfully. "How could you look so cross at him when you knew mamma wanted him to come up and speak to us? Well, I shall go to see him, whatever you do, that's certain," continued she, after a short pause, as the lad leaned back upon his seat without deigning a reply. Then taking up the thin hand that lay upon his knee, she kissed it affectionately as if to atone for the momentary pique against him; but her eyes followed the poor boy until he was no longer visible among the crowd, and she was thinking of the pitiful expression, and contrasting it with the trustful, hopeful one that she had last seen from the lonely library, and wondering what could make the difference. And she cared little for the drive, although they passed through beautiful streets and along her favorite haunts, by the bay, and out on the avenues and quite beyond the noise and dust of the city, in the midst of God's own fair and beautiful nature. The mother noticed the child's abstraction, and it saddened her to think of the shadow that comes over the brightness of one's early being, shutting out the loveliness and the grace even from the youngest heart.

It was hard to feel that an unsightly hump, and a woe-begone face were occupying the place that had hitherto been filled with images of joy and gladness; but Mrs. Lincoln was a wise mother, and would not try to divert her child's mind from the salutary lesson which the very shadow itself ever brings; so they moved on with the unbroken silence, save when Willie gave utterance to some pettish feeling, and then little Kittie would look at him with a deeper pity than poor Archie had ever called forth.

They were alone in the evening, after their return from their drive, and Willie was sitting in his easy-chair by the door, while his young cousin was upon the sill at his feet apparently absorbed in some intense subject, for her pet kitten was making sad havoc with the neat straw hat that had fallen from her head, and lay unnoticed upon the step, the ribbons already crumpled and wet by Miss Pussy's chewing; and Willie had twice spoken to her without an answer. It was rather too much for the impetuous youth to bear, and when he spoke again it was with a tinge of bitterness.

"I thought mother sent for you here to amuse me, Kittie, and not to waste all your pity upon a poor beggar whom you happened to meet in the street. I'm sure I might as well be without you, as to have you as dull and silent as you have been since you saw that miserable boy. Well, haven't you any thing to say yet," continued he, as she fixed her wondering and sorrowful eyes upon his face. "It's enough to tire any body's patience to speak, and speak, and speak, and no one to answer you but the echo of your own voice. That's the way it's always been; but I might have known it. Nobody cares for a deformed boy!" and the lad threw the bunch of flowers that his cousin had just before arranged for him, out the door and wheeled his chair further back, although he was not so far removed as to lose the reproachful glance of Kittie.

"Oh, Willie!" said she, "if you had only noticed poor Archie, as I did, and seen how troubled and worn he looked, and how the big drops stood all over his forehead, as he moved on with one hand to his back, you wouldn't wonder that I don't want to talk and play to-night! It makes me so sorry because I can't help it any, and you know he's poor and has to work, when may be he's too sick and lame to do any thing."

"Why don't you pity me, Kittie? Here I have to sit, day after day, moping in this dull old house; I can't go any where, and I can't do any thing as other boys do, and there don't any body care, either, but you all seem as merry and happy as if I were the most favored person in the world. You needn't look at me with your great staring eyes, as if I were the wickedest boy you ever saw; perhaps you'd be better if you were in my place; but I'm not bad enough to wish you there, much as I wish to cast off this loathsome body and find myself upright and perfect. Come, come, Kittie, we won't quarrel any more; I didn't mean to hurt your feelings," said he, as the tears rolled down the child's face and fell upon her white dress. "You mustn't mind when I am cross, but must love me, whatever any body else does. I don't like to feel as I do so often; but how can I help it? Every thing goes wrong with me. I thought when you came I'd got somebody that wouldn't get tired of me, and it frets me to see you thinking all the time of that beggar-boy."

"I do indeed love you, dear Willie," replied his little cousin, rising, and clasping him around the neck; "but I wish poor Archie had time to lie down on a soft couch like yours, and had a kind mother to kiss him, and fan him, and soothe away his pain, as you have. I'm afraid to hear you talk pettishly, when you have so many comforts, for mamma says 'God sometimes takes away our good things if we do not know how to prize them and be thankful for them,'" and the child ran to her mother, whose voice she heard in the hall.

It was very well to leave the murmuring boy alone just then, for her little prattle was not without its effect upon her cousin, who began to think that perhaps there were others in the world as miserably off as himself.

"I'll go with Kittie to see the poor lad, any way," soliloquized he. "It won't do me any harm, and may be it will amuse me a little while."

Still selfish, poor youth! If it had only been, "May be it will amuse him a little while," then the obtrusive hump wouldn't be so heavy, and the murmuring, repining spirit would become joyous and grateful. But we will have patience with thee for a while yet. It is so easy, with this healthy, robust frame, to reproach the diseased and fretful one. We will try to be lenient toward thy complainings.



CHAPTER V.

The sun had been up for a long time, and the old grandmother had the breakfast upon the table. She hadn't called Archie, for she knew the boy's habits, and supposed he was busy with his books as usual, so she helped her son to his hasty meal, and saw him and his trowel and pipe a long distance without the door before she ventured to disturb her grandchild's quiet. Thump, thump, thump, upon the bedroom wall, and not an answering sound, yet, after a moment, there seemed to be a stir, and some words that were not intelligible to her obtuse ear. She didn't wait much longer, but lifted the latch and entered his room.

What ails the boy? His eyes are wild and fierce, and his figure is tossed from side to side of the narrow bed, while he mutters of his mother, and of a sweet lady, and a gentle child; and then he presses a parched hand to his brow, and begs them not to heap up the hot coals there, but to bring him ice, ice; and then he clinches his fist and strikes at the old woman who has approached him to try to calm him, but she has no power over his ravings, and she perceives that he has a terrible fever; and then she remembers that he would go supperless to bed the night before, and that he looked paler and more weary than usual, and she chides herself for not coming earlier to see if he was ill. She wishes some body would come; it wouldn't do to leave him alone, and what can she do by herself? There's a knock at the outer door, she thinks—no; it is only a stray goat that frequents that quarter of the city, and has come for her accustomed offering of food. She hasn't any heart to stop now, and the disappointed animal goes off again to try her next neighbor. There's no milk-man, nor baker, nor butcher's boy, nor grocer to come to her, for they do all their own purchasing at the small shop near, and so the morning wears on, and the lad grows more delirious, and talks about coffins, and death, and horrible sights, and just as his grandmother, too frightened to neglect the case longer, locks the door of his room, and gets her bonnet on to find a doctor, a lady gives a slight rap and enters the outer door, followed by a young girl. She hears the delirious tones, and immediately knows that the boy is ill, and the old woman gladly accepts her kind offer to sit by him until she returns with the physician, though she says it is too much for a lady to consent to, and she is fearful the boy will do her some harm in his raving mood.

"Don't be troubled," said Mrs. Lincoln, "I'm not afraid;" and she turned the key, and was soon beside the sufferer with her delicate hand upon his brow, and her tender words soothing his horrors all away. It was wonderful what a charm there was in the gentle eye that was fixed upon him, and the soft touch that cooled the burning forehead! Quite an hour she sat in the same position, breathing out tones that only a mother ever learns, and the lad lay quiet and calm, looking up into her face with a pleased and satisfied expression, save when she moved as if to leave him for a moment, the paroxysm would seize him again. The physician came, and pronounced the disease brain-fever brought on by over-fatigue and exertion, and Kittie stood with her pitiful glance fastened upon him, and she knew then why he was so distressed the day before when he passed them as they sat in the carriage, and why the resignation and trust had gone.

He did not know her now, and her mother sent her home with the promise that she should come often, if he got better and would like to see her; but she remained day after day nursing him as his own mother would have done, until the mind was clear again, and he was conscious of her grateful presence. All through the long period of his delirium he had fancied that his mother's spirit was beside him ministering to his wants, and whenever she went from his sight, for a moment, he kept up a lamentable moaning until she was there again, and then he would lay for hours without even a murmur or a sound.

No wonder she felt a mysterious interest in the boy as he grew stronger, and would so often bend her steps to his humble dwelling to read or talk to him. And Kittie, too, desired no better reward for good behavior than to spend an hour at poor Archibald Mackie's. They had learned all about his history now, and he had told Mrs. Lincoln how much she had reminded him of the dead mother, and what a help her sympathy had been to him in his studies, and they had spoken of Willie and his troubles, and Archie forgot the sour face that had sent him away from the carriage, and thought only of the boy's crippled fate, so like his own. Like, and yet unlike—to the casual observer there was a vast difference between the forlorn, poverty-stricken, ragged Archie, and the petted, and pampered, and richly-clad Willie; but to the eye of the unwearied watcher who had witnessed the patience and the goodness of the sick lad, and contrasted it with the petulance and sinfulness of her nephew, the gifts of God were not unequally distributed.



CHAPTER VI.

It was astonishing how many friends Archie had among the poor—there was Mahan Doughty coming every day with her apron full of wild flowers which she had wandered a long way to find, and which she carefully disposed in the little pewter mug that stood on the table beside the lad's bed—and there was old Patrick Marsh, night and morning, with a fresh cup of milk from his one precious goat—and Sally Bunt with the only egg her hen-house could produce, and a host of young voices often at the door with a hushed tone of inquiry concerning the invalid. Oh! it isn't wealth that brings the greatest and purest joy! Mrs. Fay felt that as she saw the blessings of an unbought interest pouring in upon the humble inmate of the small hovel, and she adored more than ever the justice of the Almighty giver who dispenseth with such perfect measure to every living soul.

The lad loved the flowers, and dwelt upon their beauty as he lay languidly upon his bed, and they were full of happy teachings to him—better, far better than many a more boisterous exhorter. He couldn't look upon their wonderous and perfect mechanism with a cold or unbelieving heart; but his best and warmest affections went upward with their sweet odor, and were acceptable to Him who had tipped every petal with a heavenly message.

Archie also loved the rough visage of old Patrick, and was convinced of the value of a kind and generous heart, by the simple offering that was so grateful to his enfeebled state. Patrick had always looked upon the boy with a pride not unmixed with awe. He could discern the symptoms of a higher destiny awaiting the lad, and had always treated him with a certain degree of reverence and respect, and now that the youth was so helpless and weak, the strong arm of the true old man lifted him back and forth, and held him fondly upon his breast as if he were his own little child, and so there grew an enduring sympathy between them that was to stay both the tottering and the crippled.

Sally Bunt, too, standing before the sick boy with the tempting gift in one hand, and a finger of the other bashfully thrust into her wee mouth, was an object of some affection to Archie, who would call the little girl up to him, and smooth down her frizzled hair with his tremulous hand, and thank her so warmly for the one egg, that she would go away with as much joy in her heart as if she were a queen, and had just tendered her costly offerings, and concluded her interview with the wisest man.

Nor were the young children who gathered around the house for news of the convalescent, forgotten or unheeded; but the pale face would appear at the small window to greet them, and the feeble voice would speak out its sincere gratitude. The hours were very lonely after he began to get well, yet was confined to his close room; and Archie almost felt as if he could be always so very, very ill, if it would insure to him the presence of the gentle lady, who came now but an hour a day to see him.

The old grandmother was obliged to keep closely to her work now that the boy was disabled, and the father had only the early dawn and the late evening to spend in the sick-room; but these were pleasant seasons to his child, for they developed the good and the tender in the man's nature, and diminished the distance between the two, so that the son could again feel the link that bound his father to the departed.

They could now talk together of his mother and look over the little mementoes that were so treasured, and both were happier for the hallowed communion.

"You'll lay me by her when I'm gone, lad, won't you?" said the man. "I couldn't sleep elsewhere, and I've faith to think you'll live to see me buried, much as we all watched for your own last breath."

The boy didn't like to talk of death now. He had passed through the danger, and had a motive in wishing to live. There was a great deal to be done—a mighty work, but he felt strong to do it—and when he was alone he hobbled across the room, and unlocked a small chest and found a portfolio that had been his mother's, and every day the white pages grew black with marks; but bright and radiant with the overflowing treasures of a rich and gifted mind. Like a miser he hid the product, down, down, amid heaps of household rubbish in an uncared for nook by the chimney, and only drew it forth to add to its value when there was no witness that could betray him. It was a worthless-looking thing, that old leather portfolio, with the wear and tear of years upon it; but the boy felt a sort of inward consciousness that the gloomy and dismal hiding-place beneath the refuse truck was not its irrevocable destiny; and this feeling buoyed him up when he was inclined to despondency or sadness, and kept him busy with his new labor during many an otherwise weary and painful hour. And so his days passed on until the pain and the lassitude left him, and he could again go forth to work amid the erect and strong, with his own frame bent still lower by his long sad illness.



CHAPTER VII.

"Cousin Willie, I have not seen him for several days, and I do want to go so much!"—besides, pleaded the little girl, "you promised to walk there with me some day, long ago, and you have never been there yet."

The cousins were standing together on the green slope, whence they could see the poor boy's home, and Kittie's attention had been particularly drawn to the spot by a crowd of laborers that were gathered around the house seemingly engaged in some exciting subject, for they were gesticulating violently, while the old woman stood without the group wringing her hands, and now and then applying her apron to her face with a passive sort of grief.

"I do believe that Mr. King, who bought so much land here last week, means to pull down Archie's cottage!" exclaimed Kittie, looking earnestly at the men, whose motions she had been anxiously watching for some time. "I heard mamma say she was afraid they would have to leave, and that would almost kill Archie. Will you go with me, Willie? I must know about it. Only think! to have to go away from the place where he was born, and, may be, live in a room with ever so many families, just like little Peter Bell; it is really dreadful!" and the child moved toward the gate, with her hat in her hand, and her hair waving in the fresh breeze, unconscious of every thing save that something threatened Archie, in whose interests she was now wholly absorbed.

"It's no use; you mustn't go there now, Kittie," said her cousin, who had, thus far, been but a silent witness of the scene upon the vacant space, and of the child's unwonted emotion. "What good do you think a little girl like you could do among so many grown men? I know they mean to pull down the house, for old Patrick Marsh came to father this morning to see if he would let Archie live in the little place of ours, just down here by the vegetable-garden. He said Archie was not able to be confined to a store, and that he would be just the hand to keep the garden nice."

"Oh! that will be grand!" replied Kittie, clapping her hands and dancing for joy. "I'm almost glad they will take it down—only he likes it so, living there, and it will take a long time to get used to another place," added she musing thoughtfully, with her finger upon her lip. "But it's greener, here, Willie," she continued, bounding along until she stood beside the spot in question; "and then we can come often to see him, you know. Won't it be nice? Oh! I'm so happy!"

"Not so fast, Kittie; father left it to me altogether. He knew it would be unpleasant to have that deformed boy always before me, and so he would give no answer to old Patrick without my consent; and I don't believe I shall say yes very soon. I'm sorry Jim went away, for I loved to come down here sometimes while he had the place; he always had something nice to say to me."

"And yet Jim was wicked, dear Willie, and used to beat Brindle, and kick the horses every day; and I heard him call you names to Bridget once, when you told him to wheel you about the garden. To be sure he didn't know I was near; but if he had really liked you, he would have felt the same and acted the same every where. I hope you'll let Archie come, he's so gentle and kind, and it will be a good deed on your part, too, Willie."

"I don't know," muttered the lad; "it's bad enough to have one cripple about without multiplying them. People would call this the hospital, or the asylum for the deformed, if they saw many such objects around here."

"Never mind people, Willie; it's better to feel that you are doing good than to be guided by what people would say and what people would think. Mamma teaches me to go by that rule, and I'm sure I'm a great deal happier for it. I never think now of any body when I want to do any thing, but go right on and do it, if I think it is best. Only let Archie come, and you'll see what a difference it will make to your life. He is a good boy, and he knows a great deal, too; more than I can learn for a long, long time, so that it will do us no harm to be with him. Mamma says she does not care who I associate with, if it is a good and intelligent child. All she wants is to keep me away from the wicked and ignorant, and she never says no when I ask to go to Archibald Mackie's; and I'm sure my mother knows!" and Kittie seated herself on the bench beside the vacant house, waiting for some decision from Willie, who was still wavering.

If he should consent, there would be a constant remembrancer of his own defective person ever before him; it was quite enough to be sensible of his condition without so palpable an image haunting the precincts of his home. Then Kittie would be drawn from him to the poor boy, who had already enlisted more of her sympathies than he had ever done. He would like to please her, though, and it would be a sort of patronage toward the boy that might exalt himself in Kittie's estimation.

It was very singular how much influence the child exercised over him. He was pettish and cross toward her, and made it a great condescension to do any thing that she proposed; and yet, to thwart her in any one thing made him uneasy and miserable. "What would Kittie think?" and, "Would it please Kittie?" were questions that he was more willing to put to himself than to acknowledge to any body else. He could not mistake his cousin's wishes now, and he meant all the time to gratify her, but the perverse nature would have its vent, and so he said, very ungraciously,

"There's one thing—the pony needs better care than Jim ever gave it, and perhaps Archie might be gentle with it, and his father can mind the garden at odd times. I've half a mind to try him; but he must know his place, and not be thinking himself an equal just because we choose to benefit him."

Kittie did not care what he did, nor how he got there, so that he really had the permission, and before Willie had time to alter his mind she had flown out the gate, and was fast nearing the humble cottage. The workmen had dispersed, and the door and windows were closed, and the curtains all down, so that the child thought nobody was there, but she went quietly in, as she had been accustomed, and tapped at Archie's room. There was a sound of voices within, and she heard the old woman murmuring against the new proprietor of the ground for disturbing her in her old age; but she was scarcely prepared for such a burst of grief as met her from Archie, as she entered the room and spoke to him in her soothing gentle manner. His treasures were lying upon his bed ready for the packing in a small box that he held in his hand, and his books and clothes were piled up on the table awaiting their final destination.

The child had never seen him so pale and troubled in all his trying illness as he now looked, and his unconcealed, unsuppressed sorrow frightened her so that she had scarcely a word to say, until he became somewhat calm, and then she told him of the small house on her uncle's domains, and the permission he had to occupy it. "It is so much better than this, Archie!" said she, looking out the window upon the barren space, and around the room at the dingy and tottering walls. They were both very grateful—the old woman and the boy—but nobody could tell with what tenacity their affections clung to every splinter of the old building, and what a bitter step it was, that last one, over the threshold of their lowly home.



CHAPTER VIII.

The morrow had come, and the old woman knew that the word had gone forth against her humble tenement, and that there could be no appeal, so she quietly betook herself to the vacant cottage within the grounds of Mr. Lincoln with the feeling that "it was not long that she had to stay upon the earth anyhow, and it mattered little where she spent her few remaining days."

Archie said nothing to his grandmother about his own movements, but while she went her way to the new home he turned toward the beautiful cemetery, and there, upon the head of his mother's grave, he deposited the box of treasures, not with any false or superstitious notion, but from a sacred and loving impulse. It had seemed such a sacrilege, to him, to remove them from the spot where her own hand had placed them; besides, there was no hallowed nook in the strange home, and this was why he sought the most consecrated part of earth for these precious relics. All about, upon the graves of the poor, he had seen similar tokens, and had observed that even the most careless and light-hearted passer-by had never stooped to touch what a pious affection had made sacred. Some, it is true, had looked with contempt upon these simple tributes, and had suffered the words "heathen fanatics!" to escape their lips; but these same persons would spend hours before the costly ornaments above a richer body, and find in them no motive but a commendable and proper respect, whereas the Omniscient could note the pride engraven upon the one, and the sincere and earnest feeling that marked the other. It didn't matter much to Archie what any body said or thought. He knew that there his treasures were safe, and he felt them to be an appropriate monument until his secret wishes respecting his mother's ashes could be attained, so he left them, and sauntered slowly away. Gay parties, whose only motive in seeking the dwelling-place of the dead was the gratification of the outward senses, looked from their luxurious carriages upon the poor hunchback with a careless indifferent feeling as he passed along with bent frame and serious air, little dreaming of the great soul that tenanted so feeble a body.

One alone of a merry group paused, and leaned eagerly forward to give some token of recognition to the lad, whose errand there she could readily guess. "What is it, Kittie?" asked half a dozen of her light-hearted companions, as she smiled sweetly and bowed to the boy. "It can't be human;" and then they laughed as the child's sad face looked reproachfully at them. As if this miserable shell that, however attractive and beauteous now, must, one day, be clothed in a loathsome corruption, could affect in any way the glorious and undying principle within! Not "human!" because clad in an uncouth and unsightly garment! as well might we spurn the immortal spirits for once dwelling in clayey tenements, as to make a mock and derision of those who, for some wise but hidden purpose, are made to walk this earth with marred and uncomely figures. Not "human!" Kittie knew how much of humanity there was in the sorrowing heart that was even now beating with a pure and filial affection, as the weary steps plodded through the pleasant avenues. She remembered the deep and grateful feeling that was so constantly manifesting itself toward her gentle mother as she ministered to him on his sick bed, and she could appreciate his noble, and generous, and loving nature, while others saw but the distorted figure that came between them and an otherwise undisturbed beauty. Take heart, poor youth! There are kindred loving eyes on earth that beam even for thee!