"Cousin Willie, I have not seen him for several days, and I do want to go so much!"—besides, pleaded the little girl, "you promised to walk there with me some day, long ago, and you have never been there yet."

The cousins were standing together on the green slope, whence they could see the poor boy's home, and Kittie's attention had been particularly drawn to the spot by a crowd of laborers that were gathered around the house seemingly engaged in some exciting subject, for they were gesticulating violently, while the old woman stood without the group wringing her hands, and now and then applying her apron to her face with a passive sort of grief.

"I do believe that Mr. King, who bought so much land here last week, means to pull down Archie's cottage!" exclaimed Kittie, looking earnestly at the men, whose motions she had been anxiously watching for some time. "I heard mamma say she was afraid they would have to leave, and that would almost kill Archie. Will you go with me, Willie? I must know about it. Only think! to have to go away from the place where he was born, and, may be, live in a room with ever so many families, just like little Peter Bell; it is really dreadful!" and the child moved toward the gate, with her hat in her hand, and her hair waving in the fresh breeze, unconscious of every thing save that something threatened Archie, in whose interests she was now wholly absorbed.

"It's no use; you mustn't go there now, Kittie," said her cousin, who had, thus far, been but a silent witness of the scene upon the vacant space, and of the child's unwonted emotion. "What good do you think a little girl like you could do among so many grown men? I know they mean to pull down the house, for old Patrick Marsh came to father this morning to see if he would let Archie live in the little place of ours, just down here by the vegetable-garden. He said Archie was not able to be confined to a store, and that he would be just the hand to keep the garden nice."

"Oh! that will be grand!" replied Kittie, clapping her hands and dancing for joy. "I'm almost glad they will take it down—only he likes it so, living there, and it will take a long time to get used to another place," added she musing thoughtfully, with her finger upon her lip. "But it's greener, here, Willie," she continued, bounding along until she stood beside the spot in question; "and then we can come often to see him, you know. Won't it be nice? Oh! I'm so happy!"

"Not so fast, Kittie; father left it to me altogether. He knew it would be unpleasant to have that deformed boy always before me, and so he would give no answer to old Patrick without my consent; and I don't believe I shall say yes very soon. I'm sorry Jim went away, for I loved to come down here sometimes while he had the place; he always had something nice to say to me."

"And yet Jim was wicked, dear Willie, and used to beat Brindle, and kick the horses every day; and I heard him call you names to Bridget once, when you told him to wheel you about the garden. To be sure he didn't know I was near; but if he had really liked you, he would have felt the same and acted the same every where. I hope you'll let Archie come, he's so gentle and kind, and it will be a good deed on your part, too, Willie."

"I don't know," muttered the lad; "it's bad enough to have one cripple about without multiplying them. People would call this the hospital, or the asylum for the deformed, if they saw many such objects around here."

"Never mind people, Willie; it's better to feel that you are doing good than to be guided by what people would say and what people would think. Mamma teaches me to go by that rule, and I'm sure I'm a great deal happier for it. I never think now of any body when I want to do any thing, but go right on and do it, if I think it is best. Only let Archie come, and you'll see what a difference it will make to your life. He is a good boy, and he knows a great deal, too; more than I can learn for a long, long time, so that it will do us no harm to be with him. Mamma says she does not care who I associate with, if it is a good and intelligent child. All she wants is to keep me away from the wicked and ignorant, and she never says no when I ask to go to Archibald Mackie's; and I'm sure my mother knows!" and Kittie seated herself on the bench beside the vacant house, waiting for some decision from Willie, who was still wavering.

If he should consent, there would be a constant remembrancer of his own defective person ever before him; it was quite enough to be sensible of his condition without so palpable an image haunting the precincts of his home. Then Kittie would be drawn from him to the poor boy, who had already enlisted more of her sympathies than he had ever done. He would like to please her, though, and it would be a sort of patronage toward the boy that might exalt himself in Kittie's estimation.

It was very singular how much influence the child exercised over him. He was pettish and cross toward her, and made it a great condescension to do any thing that she proposed; and yet, to thwart her in any one thing made him uneasy and miserable. "What would Kittie think?" and, "Would it please Kittie?" were questions that he was more willing to put to himself than to acknowledge to any body else. He could not mistake his cousin's wishes now, and he meant all the time to gratify her, but the perverse nature would have its vent, and so he said, very ungraciously,

"There's one thing—the pony needs better care than Jim ever gave it, and perhaps Archie might be gentle with it, and his father can mind the garden at odd times. I've half a mind to try him; but he must know his place, and not be thinking himself an equal just because we choose to benefit him."

Kittie did not care what he did, nor how he got there, so that he really had the permission, and before Willie had time to alter his mind she had flown out the gate, and was fast nearing the humble cottage. The workmen had dispersed, and the door and windows were closed, and the curtains all down, so that the child thought nobody was there, but she went quietly in, as she had been accustomed, and tapped at Archie's room. There was a sound of voices within, and she heard the old woman murmuring against the new proprietor of the ground for disturbing her in her old age; but she was scarcely prepared for such a burst of grief as met her from Archie, as she entered the room and spoke to him in her soothing gentle manner. His treasures were lying upon his bed ready for the packing in a small box that he held in his hand, and his books and clothes were piled up on the table awaiting their final destination.

The child had never seen him so pale and troubled in all his trying illness as he now looked, and his unconcealed, unsuppressed sorrow frightened her so that she had scarcely a word to say, until he became somewhat calm, and then she told him of the small house on her uncle's domains, and the permission he had to occupy it. "It is so much better than this, Archie!" said she, looking out the window upon the barren space, and around the room at the dingy and tottering walls. They were both very grateful—the old woman and the boy—but nobody could tell with what tenacity their affections clung to every splinter of the old building, and what a bitter step it was, that last one, over the threshold of their lowly home.