and distressed. It seemed to me that she was complaining to her mother of the darkness and silence around her, while her mother did not answer her at all, but every now and then moaned as if in great pain.

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

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

I began now to be quite anxious about Mrs. Scott, who I thought must be ill herself, or she would certainly answer Alice. Besides, I could not stand the poor child's distress any longer, and thinking it would be a relief to her to hear anybody speak, I pushed the door open and went in. The window was shut, as poor Alice supposed, but still there was light enough for me to see her very plainly. Her face was as white as the pillow on which it was lying, and her long and thick dark hair fell around it in great confusion. This, and the terror she felt, made her look very wild. Mrs. Scott was kneeling at the foot of the bed, her hands were clasped over her head, and her face was buried in the bedclothes. Alice's eyes were opened very widely, and their look, together with what I had heard, told me the painful truth at once. Alice was blind—perfectly blind,—an affliction that sometimes follows scarlet fever. Till this morning she had been either out of her senses, or so low and stupid from the disease, that she did not notice any thing. But now she was better and stronger, and having heard the doctor bid her mother good morning, when he came in to see her, she was first surprised by the long-continued darkness, and then frightened by her mother's silence and distress. And poor Mrs. Scott! she had long feared for her child's eyes, as Alice would complain of the darkness when the broad daylight was around her, and grieve that she could not see her mother's face when she was weeping over her pillow, or pressing her cold hand on her hot and aching head. But the fever gave Alice many strange fancies, and Mrs. Scott had hoped that this was one of them, till this morning, when the doctor told her that her precious child was blind, quite blind, and must, he feared, be so always.

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

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

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

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

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

Her mother groaned.

"I will open the window, my dear, and let you feel the breeze, and know that the light is around you, but your eyes are weak yet—so weak that it would hurt them very much—perhaps blind them entirely, if the light fell on them, so you must let me tie a handkerchief lightly over them before I open the window, and promise me you will not take it off while it is open."

In this I only told Alice the truth; for I knew if there was any hope of her recovering her sight it must be by keeping her from using her eyes for some time. She readily promised what I asked, and I then took my pocket-handkerchief, which was fine and thin, and passing it lightly over her eyes, tied it so as to cover them without pressing upon them. I then opened the window, and as she heard me open it and felt the breeze upon her, Alice said, "Oh, thank you, ma'am, it is so pleasant to know that the light is here, and I can almost see it; but indeed you need not be afraid of its hurting me, for I will keep my eyes shut all the time."

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

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

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

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

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

Mrs. Scott's lip trembled, and the tears came into her eyes again, but they did