was very fond of his sister, seldom leaving her for any other playmate. He remembered his dying mother's charge. She had called both children to her bed side, before her death, and placing Fanny's hand in Frank's, had said, "My son, in a few hours you and Fanny will be motherless; promise me that you will try to fill my place; that you will cherish and love your sister, with all the care and tenderness of which you are capable; and Fanny, my little darling, you must remember mamma, and try never to be peevish and fretful, so that Frank will love to be with you, and take care of you; and both of you must always be the same good and obedient children to your grand-parents, that you have ever been;" and Frank promised, through his sobs, that he would never neglect his gentle little sister. He had kept his promise faithfully. More than a year had now passed away, and very seldom had Fanny known what it was to have her brother cross, or unkind to her.

Frank was now ten years old, and Fanny seven. In all the village, there were not two happier, or better behaved children.

We will now go back to the pleasant green meadows, where we left them on their way home. Fanny was looking very serious, when Frank said:

"Are you tired, sister? If you are, I will carry you pick-a-back back."

"Oh, no, I am not one single bit tired."

"Then what makes you look so sober?"

"I was wishing that I could have one of those little birds to love, and to take care of always. I do think that it would make me very happy to have a dear little bird, that would know me, and turn his bright, black eyes up to me, like Mary Day's little canary. When she calls, "Billy, Billy," he turns his yellow head, first one side, then the other; and when he sees her, he sings so sweetly! Oh, couldn't you get just one of those little birdies for me, Frank?"

Frank looked very thoughtful for a moment, and Fanny spoke again.

"Just one; you know there are six little ones."

"I know there are six, Fanny; but you heard how the poor birds cried and scolded, when I only peeped into the nest; and if I took one away, what would they do?"

Fanny thought an instant, and then said:

"I did not have six mammas, I only had one; and God took my mamma away from me, and I am sure the birds could spare me one little one, when they have six, better than I could spare my mamma, when I only had one."

Fanny's reasoning seemed very correct to Frank; he was not old enough to explain the difference to her; so, promising to bring her one of the birds, he left her, and ran back, over the meadows, while Fanny kept on her way home, because she knew her grandmother always expected them earlier on Saturday afternoons. But though she made haste, it was quite sundown when she reached home. The snow white cloth was spread upon the table for tea, and Sally was cutting the fresh rye bread, as Fanny entered the room. Her grandmother sat by the little table, between the windows, and looked up to welcome Fanny, but missing Frank, she asked where he was.

"He has gone back to the woods, grandmother, to get"----then Fanny hesitated, for she remembered how often she had been told, that it was wicked to rob the bird's nest, and she had not thought it would be stealing the bird, until now. She felt ashamed to tell her grandmother, and so she hurried through the room, and went to the closet to hang up her sun bonnet.

Pretty soon she heard the garden gate swing to, and she ran out into the back yard, to meet Frank, who was hurrying along with a sober face, very different from his usual joyous expression. He held his cap together with both hands, and Fanny's heart beat hard, when she heard the feeble plaint of the poor imprisoned bird.

"Oh, Frank, I am so sorry," were the first words that she said, "I did not think that it would be stealing, until I got home, and then I was ashamed to tell grandmother what you had gone back for. Oh, I am so sorry."

"And so am I," said Frank; "it almost made me cry to hear the poor birds fret so. When I took it away, one of them flow close around my head, and when I ran on to get away from it, I hit my foot against a stone, and stumbled down, and I am afraid I hurt the bird. All the way across the meadow, I could hear the old birds crying so sorrowfully, "chick-a-dee-dee-dee," and it made my heart ache so, that I should have carried it back, if it had not been for you."

"Oh, dear, I wish you had. It is too late to carry it back to-night, and what will grandmother say to us."

"Supposing we don't tell her to-night, and to-morrow morning we will get up early, and carry it back, and then we can tell her all about it."

"No, we can't do that, Frank, for to-morrow is Sunday, and grandmother does not let us go into the woods on Sunday; oh, what shall we do?"

Frank now uncovered the bird, and Fanny took it gently in her hand, smoothed the glossy black head, and the brown wings, but it gave her no pleasure, for the poor little thing wailed pitifully, and looked so frightened out of its dark hazel eyes.

All the time that they had been talking, their grandmother had been standing at the open window, close by them, but the vines hid her from sight, and they did not know that she was there. When they went into the house, they did not see her, and so they carried the bird up stairs, into Fanny's room, and made a nest out of soft wool, and placed the little bird in it; but it fluttered out, and Frank saw that one of its wings was broken. Then he knew that he must have broken it when he fell, and the tears came to his eyes, as he laid it in the nest again, and covered it over with the wool.

"Let us go and tell grandmother all about it," said he, "for, perhaps, she may know how to mend the broken wing."

Just then they heard Sally calling them to supper, and they went down stairs, and sat down at the table. But the bowls of new milk remained untouched. They felt too sad to eat, for Fanny could hear the low plaint of the bird, in the room above; and still louder sounded in Frank's memory, the sad, "chick-a-dee-dee-dee," of the mourning mother.

"Why do you not eat your supper, children?" inquired their grandmother, kindly.

Fanny burst into tears, but Frank answered:

"I have done something very naughty, grandmother, and we both feel too bad to eat. We did not want to tell you to-night, for we knew it would make you unhappy to hear that we had done wrong, but we cannot keep it to ourselves any longer."

"Frank would not have done it, if it had not been for me, grandmother," sobbed Fanny; "but I wanted a little bird so badly, and I forgot that it was wicked, and I teazed Frank to go back to the woods, and get me one, and now I am so sorry."

Their grandmamma looked very grave, but she answered,

"You have done right, my children, to tell me about it. I should have been still more grieved if you had concealed it from me. As it is, I feel sorry for you, for I know how much you are both suffering for your thoughtlessness: now, try to eat your supper, and we will take good care of the bird to-night, and to-morrow morning, before church, I will send Sally with Frank, to carry it back again, for it will be an errand of mercy to the poor little bird."

The children were very much relieved by their grandmother's sympathy. After supper, they brought the bird down, and showed her the broken wing, and Frank told how he feared he had broken it. Sally tried to feed it, but it would not eat; and the children felt very sad again, when they found that the wing could not be mended. After carefully laying the bird, with the wool, in the basket, Sally prepared the children for bed. Then their grandmother read to them a chapter from the Bible, after which they sung, in sweet tones, this little evening hymn, which I will copy here, as it is such a good one, for all little children to repeat: