not run over. She kissed Alice, and then turning to me, thanked me for coming over, and asked how long I had been at home.

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

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

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

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

"Well, my child, we will both come to-morrow, and now we will bid you good-by, and I think you had better be still and try to sleep, for while you are so weak, it is not right for you to talk long without resting."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Right away, right away, ma'am. Poor things, and such kind and clever people as them are too. I only wish, ma'am, I could go to 'em without pay; I am sure if it wasn't for them as depends on me, I'd do it with all my heart."

I told her this was not necessary, though it was very kind, and again bidding her take good care of Alice, I sent her to them while I went home.

Harriet was very silent during the rest of our walk. I did not ask any questions about what she had been going to tell me she would do for Alice, if she thought it would help her; because, whatever she did, I wished should be done from her own free will. When we were again at home, she did not go to play or to read, as usual, but sat down in one place, as if she were tired, and seemed very thoughtful; yet she never named Alice, which surprised me a little, as she was accustomed to talk to me of whatever distressed her. In the afternoon she tried to amuse herself, bringing out first a book and then a toy from her room into the parlor where I sat, until she had gathered together all she had; but there seemed still to be something wanting, for in a short time the books were laid aside, the toys pushed away, and Harriet, apparently forgetting them, again sat as she had done in the morning, quiet and thoughtful. After it began to grow dark, she carried her books and toys back to her room, and came and seated herself at my feet. As the weather was warm, we had no lights in the parlor, and the hall light just let us see where objects stood, but was not bright enough to show us very plainly what they were.

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

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

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

"Yes, my dear Harriet," said I, "it must be a dreadful thing—and I fear neither you nor I have been thankful enough to God for saving you from such an affliction, when you got well of the same disease which has made Alice blind. When you pray for your little friend to-night, my love, do not forget how much reason you have to be thankful that you can see."

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

It was now getting late, and kissing her, I told her it was time for her to go to bed, and that I would only sit up long enough after her to write a letter to a bookseller to whom I intended sending for the books. Harriet was now standing by me in the hall, where I had gone to light her candle, and when I mentioned the