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.