even for an hour, now she's so helpless, but I need not come far away from her, for I dare say I can get some kind of work in B. by which I can make enough to live upon, and if she can't come home to me at night, they will, maybe, let me go to see her every day; don't you think they will, ma'am?"

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

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

"And then, ma'am," said Alice, "do you not think—" she stopped, and seemed confused.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As Alice looked very grave, I pressed her little hand in mine, and without speaking went out of the room, as Harriet began to recite the lines which I will set down here, as I think my little readers would like to see them.