A TALE.

BY MRS. HUGHS.

One cold bleak morning, in the latter end of March, before winter had quite determined to resign his tyrannical sway, though he had occasionally permitted a few soft breezes to woo the opening buds of the willow and the horse-chestnut, and scatter a few of the earliest spring flowers over the fields, Farmer Early happened, on his way to the place where his labourers were at work, to pass a field in which he had a number of sheep. Two or three times, as he proceeded along, by the side of the fence, he thought he heard a very feeble bleat, and stopped to see if there was any youngling in need of more aid than was in its mother's power to render. For some time, however, he looked in vain, but at length the sound became more distinct, and soon guided him to a corner of the field, where he discovered a sheep lying stretched out on its side, and a lamb, evidently just born, lying near it. He hastened immediately to the aid of the little complainer, and found that the mother was stiff and cold, and that it was itself nearly dead, for its feeble frame had been exposed to the cold bleak wind and occasional falls of snow, without having any tender mother to protect it from the withering blast. He immediately took it in his arms and returned home, though with but little hope that any thing that could now be done for it would be of any avail.

"Here, Sally! Sally!" cried he, as he entered the door of his own house, and immediately his eldest daughter came forward, on hearing the summons, "I have brought you something to be kind to. Here is a poor little lamb that has lost its mother, and you must try to supply the place of one to it: I am afraid it will be impossible to save it, but you must see what you can do." Sally, whose heart overflowed with tenderness toward every living thing, took the little trembling creature in her arms, and summoning her little sisters to partake of the pleasing task, and indeed to share the fatigue which she was herself but ill able to bear, she immediately began to prepare a bed for it by the fire, and to warm some milk for it.

"Do you think it will live, Sally?" said Peggy, as she stood by her elder sister's side, "do you think you can keep it from dying?"

"I hope so," answered Sally, holding the warm milk to its mouth as she spoke.

"I won't let it die," said Kitty, with great earnestness. "Will you, Sally?" "Not if I can help it."

"And if it lives, won't you let me feed it sometimes?" added Peggy, "and won't you let it be part mine?"

"Yes, it shall be part yours, and you shall help me to take care of it."

"And when it can walk, won't you let me take it out and teach it to run about the green?"

"I rather think it will be more likely to teach you to skip," returned her elder sister.

"I can run about already," said Kitty, and as she spoke, she gave several bounds across the floor to prove the truth of her assertion.

"What will you call it, Sally?" asked Peggy.

"I think we must call it Croppy, for you know how the little lambs crop the short grass. How glad I shall be if we can rear it. I never had a pet in my life, and a pet lamb, of all things in the world, is what I shall like the best."

"You always said I was your little pet," said Kitty, looking up in her sister's face with an expression of disappointment.

"And so you are," answered Sally, kissing her affectionately; "but Croppy, if it live, will be a pet to all of us."

"And it will live—I know it will," said Peggy. "Only see how much better it looks, now that it is warm, and has got some good milk."

The fact was, that little Croppy very soon began to show signs of the good effects of the kind treatment it had received; and before the day was over, it could stand, and in a few days more it began to trot about, and was very soon able to commence the business of giving the little girls lessons in running. And here we shall leave him for a while, to give a short account of the family in which he was now an inmate.

Farmer Early's family consisted of Sally, whom we have just introduced to our readers, and who was fifteen years old, George, who was about one, and Tom, who was rather more than two years younger than she. Besides these, there were two little girls, Peggy, who was seven, and Kitty, five years old. They were all rather pretty and very pleasant looking children; but Sally and George were the most conspicuously interesting, both in appearance and manners. George was of a more serious and thoughtful cast than boys of his age generally are. He was active, and always willing to do any thing in his power to assist his father and those around him; but these duties fulfilled, his chief delight was in reading, and he would sit for hours together on the top of a box in the garret, whither he was in the habit of going for the sake of being out of the noise of the other children, and would devour with the greatest eagerness the contents of every book on which he could lay his hands; and a strange mixture, it must be confessed, it had been his fate to get hold of. He had read "The Whole Duty of Man;" "Gulliver's Travels;" "Cook's Voyages;" "Pilgrim's Progress;" two or three odd volumes of some of the Waverley novels, which he had bought for a few cents a piece at an auction in the neighbouring town, when sent there on an errand; but of all the treasures of which he had ever become possessed, and which seemed likely to have the most powerful influence over his future character, was the Life of Franklin, which he likewise purchased for a few cents at an auction. Eagerly, nay, greedily, did he read this interesting little volume. And when he rose from the fascinating task, and recollected that he, who had become one of the most distinguished philosophers either of his own, or any other country, who had been a negotiator with kings, and had done more, perhaps, for his country than any other man, with the exception of Washington alone, had once been a poor, portionless, uneducated boy; and that all the attainments, all the honours of which he afterwards became possessed, were entirely the fruits of his industry and economy, he drew himself up with a noble feeling of pride and emulation, and said, "I too, perhaps, may some time or other be a great man; for every body has the power of being industrious, economical, and good; and I never can be much poorer than Franklin was when he first entered Philadelphia with only a dollar in his pocket, and when he went and bought a two-penny loaf and made his dinner off it." George had not derived his love of reading from either his father or mother; for though respectable, they were very ignorant people, and were much more disposed to regret the disposition of their son to spend his time, as they conceived, so unprofitably, than to attempt to supply him with the means of indulging his prevailing propensity. He was not, however, without one affectionate and sympathizing friend, who delighted in aiding him in every laudable undertaking, and joined with interest in all his praise-worthy pursuits. His sister Sally was, like himself, gentle, affectionate, and thoughtful. She was not so great a reader as George, for, indeed, the instruction that she had received had been so very limited, and she had always been kept so constantly employed in assisting her mother in the household work, and in taking care of the younger children, that she had never learned to read with sufficient facility to make the employment agreeable; but she delighted to listen to George's accounts of the books he had read, and was always ready to add her mite to the small stock of money which he was able to save for the purchase of more. Fondly, too, would she encourage all his ardent aspirings after knowledge and virtue, and all his sanguine anticipations of future eminence; for to her he could breathe out his thoughts almost before they were formed in his mind, conscious as he did so, that they would meet no repulsive check, no chilling reception, to nip the embryo blossom, and prevent its ripening into fruit. There was yet another circumstance which served to unite this affectionate brother and sister in still closer bonds. Sally had all her life been exceedingly delicate, and as she advanced in age, that delicacy evidently rather increased than diminished; and there was no one of the whole family that showed so much consideration, and so tender a sympathy for her weakness, as her brother George; and the grateful girl never seemed to think she could make a sufficient return for such kindness.

We have spent so much time in dwelling on the characters of the two elder branches of farmer Early's family, that we can spare but little more for the others; nor, indeed, is there much required; for Tom was, like other boys, active, playful, and careless; fond of guns, and dogs, and horses; priding himself upon managing a horse better, and shooting a partridge with truer aim than any boy in the neighbourhood; and as to the little girls, they were like most children of their age, sometimes troublesome, but more generally good and engaging, and always interesting to their parents and sister, who repeated their sayings, and watched their sports with pride and pleasure, and persuaded themselves that they were the smartest and prettiest children that were ever seen. Had the little Kitty, however, been at all less delighted with their new inmate, Croppy, than she really was, she might, perhaps, have been a little jealous of the attention which he gained from the whole family, but more especially from Sally, who, as she said, had never before had any living thing that she could call her own; and as it soon learned to know her voice, and would come bounding at her call from the furthest point of the common before the door, or would trot by her side to the dairy, anxiously looking for his usual allowance, she almost wondered at herself for the fondness which she felt for it. "It is very silly of me, I know, to be so fond of this little creature," she would sometimes say, as she mused over her little pet; "for though he likes me better than any body else at present, I know very well that any other person who took the same care of him would just do as well for him, and I should be forgotten directly; but yet he seems as if he loved me, and it is so delightful to be loved, that the attachment of a little dumb animal makes me feel happy." As Sally was thus musing, her hands were occupied with tying together a number of wild flowers which the children had just brought from the woods, and forming them into a wreath.

"What is that for?" asked Kitty, who had sat looking on so earnestly, that she had been insensible to the many challenges which Croppy had given her to a race over the common. "Who are you making that for, Sally?"

"You shall see," answered her sister, and immediately she called "Croppy! Croppy!" and in an instant, Croppy, though he had been almost out of sight at the moment of her calling, was again at her side. Sally hung the wreath round his neck, but was obliged to tie it so tight that he could not reach it with his mouth, or the display of Sally's taste would soon have been in vain. "Now keep quiet, Croppy, and do not spoil your garland before George comes home from the field, because I have dressed you up in honour of his birth-day. Now be quiet, good Croppy," continued she, as the little creature, less gratified by being so ornamented, than worried by the unusual incumbrance, tried, by rolling himself on the grass, to disengage himself from it.

"Oh! here comes George," cried Peggy. "I'll run and meet him, and bring him to see Croppy before his birth-day dress is spoiled." But at the same moment a voice was heard, calling in an angry tone, "Sally! Sally! how can you think of setting there on the damp grass, when you have been so sick all day! I know well enough how it will be—you will get cold, and will be laid up instead of helping me to-morrow with the washing." Poor Sally rose in an instant with a feeling of self-condemnation at her own carelessness, but her heart and eyes, at the same time, filling at the manner in which her mother had upbraided her. As she returned to the house, she met George hastening to admire Croppy's finery; but he had heard his mother's rebuke, and seeing the large tears standing in his sister's eyes, Croppy was immediately forgotten, and turning round with Sally, he devoted himself the rest of the evening to cheering and amusing her. "It only wants a few days now, Sally," said he, seeking, in the subject the most interesting to himself, the most probable means of amusing his sister, "it only wants a few days now to the time of my going to school. Father has promised me a month's schooling before the harvest begins, and another when it is over; and if I am diligent, I can learn a great deal in that time. Oh, how I long to begin! I dream about being at school every night; and I always think that I am learning something that compels me to study very hard, and I am always so glad, because I think then I am learning the way to be a wise and good man. Franklin had very little more schooling than I shall have had by that time, and as to money, he was as poor as I am, every bit; for when he first came to Philadelphia, he had only a single dollar in his pocket, and yet you see he got to be a very great man."

"Yes," said Sally, "but he had to study and work very hard for a great many years first."

"To be sure he had," returned the brother with animation; "but then so can I work, and so can I study; I am not afraid of either. Did not I walk ten miles yesterday, when I went that errand for the squire, because he said he would give me a quarter of a dollar? and here it is," he added, taking the money out of his pocket, and looking at it with great complacency, "and I mean to get up by day break in the morning, and go to buy a book with it that I saw the other day, and that I want to read; I can get it, I think, for a quarter of a dollar. And I'll tell you another thing, Sally; I expect by the time I have finished my month of schooling, you will be a great deal stronger than you are now, and then I can teach you every thing that I have learnt, and we shall be so happy—shan't we, Sally?" Sally smiled assent, but it was a languid smile, for the ardour of her youthful mind was checked by the enfeebling influence of disease.

The next morning Sally felt very forcibly the ill effects of her imprudence in sitting on the damp grass the night before; and though she still recollected the severe manner in which her mother had reproved her, she could not but be conscious that the reproof was deserved. This made her very unwilling to complain, though she rose with a severe pain in her side, a burning fever in her veins, and a cough which was always troublesome, but was now more than usually distressing. Determined, however, not to complain, and anxious, if possible, to conceal her indisposition, she prepared to assist her mother in every way in her power; and though she felt it would be impossible for her to stand at the washing tub, she washed and dressed her little sisters, prepared the breakfast, and did a variety of offices equally useful, and was in hopes it would escape the observation of every one, that what she did was performed under the pressure of more pain and debility than usual. She was assisted in this concealment by the absence of George, who had not, at breakfast time, returned from the town to which he had gone for the purchase of the book of which he had spoken the evening before; for had he been present, his watchful eye, she well knew, would soon have discovered the oppression under which she laboured. Breakfast, however, was entirely over before he returned, and when he did come, he only stayed to eat a piece of dry bread and take a drink of water, a kind of fare which would at any time have been sufficient to satisfy him, but which he had now become extremely fond of, since he found that Franklin ascribed so much of his alacrity in business, and his facility in study, to his adherence to that simple diet; and then hastened to assist his father in the field. Sally sometimes almost persuaded herself that her little pet Croppy saw and understood that all was not right with his young mistress; for instead of frisking about the common as usual with the little girls, he kept almost constantly trotting by her side, every now and then rubbing his little head tenderly against her, and appearing quite happy when she stooped down to pat his head and speak to him in a tone of kindness. Yet even this slight indulgence seemed almost more than she had either time or spirits to bestow, and the continual repetition of Sally do this, and Sally do that, kept her incessantly occupied till late in the afternoon, when the chief of the business being over, and she too much exhausted to support herself any longer on her feet, had just sunk upon a seat, and was patting the head which Croppy had come and laid on her lap, when her father and brothers returned from the field. "Sally," said the farmer, in a tone of reproach, "you sit patting that lamb as if there was nothing else to be done. Come, girl," he continued, taking up a milking bucket as he spoke, "get your bucket, and let us go and milk the cows." George, who, at the moment his father spoke, had taken up his newly purchased treasure, and had got half across the room on the way to his private retreat, cast a glance at his sister, and perceiving in an instant that she was ill, he threw down his book, and saying, "Sit still, Sally, for I am going to milk this evening," he took the bucket and hastened after his father. Sally's heart glowed with affection and gratitude. She had always loved her brother, but never had he been half so dear to her as at this moment. "Croppy, you must love George for being so kind to your mistress," said she, addressing herself to the lamb for want of a more sympathizing auditor, "you must love George for my sake;" and she watched for his return, impatient to let him know that she understood and felt his kindness.

At length, the business of milking over, George again appeared, but no longer with the glow of animation on his countenance with which he had returned from his day's labour, nor yet with the spirit and alacrity with which he had left the house on his office of kindness. "Is he sorry now, that he went?" thought Sally, as she examined his countenance. "Has he begun to think what a great deal he might have read in the time that he has been milking?" "Why don't you go to your book now, George?" asked she, as she saw that, after disposing of the milk bucket, her brother placed himself at the end of the large table, on which he put up his arm, and rested his head upon it with a look of great distress. "Why don't you go and read now?" again she inquired; "there is nothing to hinder you now."

"Because I don't want to," answered George, in a tone very different from his usual cheerful, good tempered voice.

"George, come here beside me," said Sally, tenderly, for she began to feel alarmed at the expression of her brother's countenance.

"Oh! I can't," returned the boy; "do let me alone, I don't want to speak."

Sally's eyes filled with tears. "He is vexed at me," thought she, "for he thinks I am always in the way of his improving himself." George got up and moved towards the stairs. "You are leaving your book behind you, George," said Sally, glad to think that he was going at last to his favourite employment. "I don't want it," he replied; "I am going to bed."

"George, do tell me what is the matter before you go; are you sick?"

"No, I am not sick, but I don't want to talk; so do let me alone." So saying, he went to bed, and Sally soon after retired also, but not to sleep. Uneasiness at the sudden and unaccountable change in her brother's manner, added double violence to the disease which was throbbing in her veins; and after a restless and sleepless night, she attempted to rise in the morning, but finding herself entirely unable to do so, she was obliged to lay her head again upon her pillow. "Aye, this is just what I thought would be the case," said her mother, who coming up to see why Sally had not made her appearance, found her too ill to sit up; "I told you what you would bring upon yourself by playing and idling your time away with that little useless pet lamb of yours." Mrs. Early did not mean to be an unkind mother, but she, like many other people, had an unfortunate manner of showing her affection, and generally vented the uneasiness which the sight of her daughter's indisposition occasioned, in a tone of reproach, for which she had not always so much cause as on the present occasion.

"I know I was wrong, mother, for sitting upon the grass," said Sally, mildly, "but say no more about it, for it cannot be helped; and ask George to come up and see me." "George has been out at work these two hours," replied her mother, "and here am I with all the ironing to do, and every thing else to attend to, and to nurse you into the bargain."

"No, indeed, mother, I don't need any nursing," returned the poor girl, who, though convinced her mother did not mean any unkindness by this manner of speaking, was yet unable to repress the tears which filled her eyes and forced themselves down her cheek as she spoke. "Only tell Peggy to bring me up some water to drink, and I want nothing else."

"Aye, it's fine talking. But do you think I can have you lying sick in bed, without coming to look after you? And I'm sure I don't know how I'm to find time to do it, and to do all the work besides. But I will send Peggy up with a drink for you, and will come up myself as often as I can," added the mother, as she closed the door after her.

When left to herself, Sally's mind dwelt continually on the thought of George's melancholy the night before, which she was sure was still unremoved, or he would never have thought of going to work without first coming to inquire after her. Anxiety to know the cause only increased the longer she dwelt upon the subject. In vain did her little sisters try their utmost efforts to amuse her, for which purpose, even little Croppy was brought up stairs, and introduced into the bed room; she looked at it with pleasure, and gave the little girls strict injunctions to be kind and attentive to it whilst she was unable to be so herself; but again her mind recurred to the recollection that something was amiss with her favourite brother; and this idea, much more than the bodily pain that she suffered, made every hour appear like two, till he came home to his dinner. At length she heard her father's voice below, and knowing that George was in all probability there also, she knocked down for her little attendant Peggy, and desired her to ask George to come up and see her. He came immediately, and the moment Sally saw him, she perceived that the same expression of melancholy remained on his countenance.

"George," said she, in a gentle, affectionate voice, as he came toward her bed-side, "I wanted to see you, to know if you have forgiven me."

"Forgiven, you, Sally! what had I to forgive?" asked he, in a tone of surprise.

"For being the means of keeping you from going up stairs to read last night."

"Oh! Sally, you surely do not think that I was angry at you for being sick?"

"No, not angry at me for being sick, but angry at me for having made myself sick by my own imprudence, and so keeping you from the only enjoyment you have."

"And don't you think, Sally, that I would rather help you than read any book whatever?"

"I know you have always been very kind in helping me, but still what made you so sorrowful when you came in from milking, if it was not that?"

"It was not that, at any rate," answered George.

"Then what was it? Do tell me, George, for I know there is something amiss, and I cannot tell what it is."

"It is nothing that you can help, Sally, so keep yourself easy, and get well again, for that will sooner bring back my spirits than any thing else."

"George, do tell me what is the matter. I am very sick, and it only makes me worse to think of your being so sorrowful, and I not know the cause."

"Oh! I am not sorrowful," returned George, endeavouring to speak cheerfully, "I am only disappointed, but I shall soon get over it; for my father told me last night whilst we were milking, that he has had so many losses this season, both in sheep, and cows, and horses, that he will not be able to send me to school as he had promised to do."

But though George began his speech with an assumed cheerfulness, he was unable to keep it up; and as he pronounced the last words, the tears, in spite of his utmost efforts, filled his eyes, and were about to force themselves down his cheeks, when the voice of his mother calling him from below, checked their course, and he hastened down stairs to obey the summons.

"Tom, Sally wants you to go up stairs to her," said Peggy, in the evening, when the family were all assembled to supper.

"Wants me!" said Tom, in surprise. "What does she want me for? She surely does not expect that I can read to her, or talk to her about books, as George does."

"I don't know, but she said I must tell you to come up and speak to her."

Tom went up stairs, but when he came down again, though questioned by all around about the business for which he had been sent, he refused to gratify their curiosity; but after eating his supper in silence, a very uncommon circumstance for him, for he generally had some exploit to recount that he had achieved with his gun, his horse, or his dog, he took his hat and went out, without making any remark about whither he was going, or what he was going to do; nor on his return was he any more communicative, though the curiosity of all was considerably excited about the nature of the business he had been upon.

In the mean time, Sally's illness increased in so alarming a manner, that even her mother ceased to talk about herself, and was anxious only for the health of her child.

The poor girl, as if conscious that her sufferings were only a just penance for the imprudence of which she had been guilty, uttered no complaints, though she tossed about the whole night in all the restlessness of a burning fever, and was, by the time that day-light arrived, so ill, that George was despatched in haste for the physician from the neighbouring town, whose arrival was waited for with an impatience that only those can understand who have known what it is to watch by the side of a beloved one, and count the minutes till the sufferer is relieved, and strength is given to their sinking hopes.

"What can George be about?" said the mother, looking out of the window, and straining her anxious eyes in hopes of catching a glimpse of him as he came across the common; "he never was so long on an errand before. He surely might have managed to come back himself before this time, whether the doctor could come with him or not."

"Keep yourself easy, mother," said Sally, gently, who was the only one that was not impatient, "I am sure he will come back as soon as he possibly can."

"Peggy, run along as far as the stable yonder, and try if you can see any thing of him," added her mother, "and come back directly and tell me if you do."

Away went Peggy, followed by the little Kitty, and having caught a sight of her elder brother, was about to do as she had been ordered, and hasten to the house to announce the intelligence, when her curiosity was excited, and her steps arrested, by the sight of another object, for whose presence she was unable to account. "Why, who can that be that is coming along the road with Tom? I declare it is Ben, the butcher's boy. What can he want here, I wonder?" At that moment Tom was heard calling Croppy! Croppy! and in an instant Croppy came bounding across the common to meet him. George, too, had arrived at the same time from an opposite direction, and eagerly inquired what he wanted with Croppy; but the next moment, like a stroke of lightning, the truth flashed across his mind, and, throwing himself down by the side of the lamb, he clasped his arms around its neck. "I know what is the matter—I know it all," he exclaimed. "Sally is going to sell Croppy, for the sake of paying for my schooling; but its innocent life shall not be taken away for any such thing. I can read and teach myself, and Croppy shall not be killed."

"Hush, George, give over making that noise, man. Don't you hear mother calling you? Get up, I tell you, and don't make such a rout about a lamb; it's not the first lamb that has been killed, I am sure."

Peggy now caught the alarm, and bursting into tears, she ran to the butcher's boy. "You must not take Croppy away. Oh! you shall not kill our dear little Croppy," she exclaimed, pushing the boy back with her little hands as she spoke, while Kitty, scarcely able to understand the meaning of what was going forward, and anxious only to show kindness to their little favourite, had got some water from a bucket that stood near her, and was trying to coax the little creature to drink. But Croppy, as if conscious of the fate that awaited him, was insensible to all her solicitations. At this moment, the sound of horses' feet was heard, and the next, the doctor rode up to them, and struck with the expression of grief on George's countenance, and with Peggy's distress, inquired what was the matter. The story was soon told. "Oh, cheer up, my good boy," said he, addressing himself to George, whose sensibility and anxiety for improvement struck him with equal admiration, "keep yourself easy, for the lamb shall live, and you shall go to school into the bargain." So saying, he gave the butcher's boy a piece of money to reconcile him to going back without the lamb; then turning to George, he assured him that he would take the expense of his schooling upon himself, and that instead of a month, he should stay a year, or more, if he found that he continued to set as high a value as he at present did upon being furnished with the means of improvement. "And now," added he, "I must go and see after this kind sister of yours, whose health I shall be doubly anxious to restore after this proof of her amiable and affectionate disposition." But though he was on horseback, George was at the house before him, and was making his way immediately to Sally's room, when he was stopped by his mother, who met him, and, in an agony of tears, told him that Sally was too ill to be spoken to. Disappointed at not being able either to express his gratitude for the proof of affection which she had given, or to make her a sharer of his own happiness, he sunk down on a seat, and waited the return of the doctor, whom his mother now conducted to the sick chamber. After waiting a long time, he at length heard the sound of his footsteps on the stairs, and his voice, as he spoke in a soft tone to his mother. George fixed his eyes on the face of the physician as he entered the room where he was, and endeavoured to read in it what he thought of his patient, but felt afraid to inquire.

"May I go up now?" asked he, in a timid voice.

"Yes. Go up, she is anxious to have you with her, and I am sure I need not tell you to pay her all the attention in your power."

George did not wait to make any reply, but was, in an instant, by Sally's bed-side. But how great, how alarming, was the change that he saw in her from the time that he had last left her!

"Sally! dear Sally, I am come to thank you," said he. Sally raised her eyes and smiled on him affectionately. "How kind it was to give up your little pet to pay for my schooling. But, though I am going to school, you will still have Croppy to be kind to."

"Croppy will not be taken from me, but I shall soon be taken away from him. George, I am going to leave you all very soon."

"Oh! Sally, don't talk that way," said George, in a tone of extreme agitation. "What has the doctor been doing to frighten you so?"

"The doctor has not frightened me. He told me that he hoped he should make me well again, but I know better; I know that I am dying; but I am not frightened, for I know that I am going to a kind father. I am sorry to part with you all, especially you, George, but it must be, and we shall meet again soon."

"Oh, don't talk about dying, Sally," cried the afflicted boy, the tears streaming down his cheeks as he spoke, "don't talk about leaving us. I cannot bear to think of parting with you."

"George," said Sally, and an almost heavenly expression brightened her countenance as she spoke, "you have read a great deal, but your reading will be of little use if you have not learnt to know that it is our duty to submit with patience to the will of our Heavenly Father. I like to be with you, and am sorry to think of leaving you, but I know we shall meet again, and then there will be no more parting. But we will talk no more about it now. Mother is coming, and I don't want to distress her."

George looked at Sally, and tried to persuade himself that she was mistaken in imagining herself so ill. But the more he examined her countenance on which the indelible stamp of death was already impressed, the more he was convinced that she was right. From that moment, he scarcely quitted her bed-side, but watched over her, read portions of the scriptures to her whenever she was able to listen, and even prayed with her. Her composure and benignity were gradually communicated to his mind, so that though the one of all the family who was the most fondly attached to her, he was the only one who could view her approaching death with sufficient calmness to be able to listen to her when she talked about it. Short was the time, however, that he was called upon to exercise this self-command, for the vital torch was nearly extinguished, and her short, but innocent life, was nearly drawn to a close. George, whose affectionate offices seemed to become more and more grateful to her as the time approached nearer when she must resign them altogether, had sat up with her all night; and her mother, toward morning, was prevailed upon to go and take a little rest, under the assurance from Sally, that she did not need any thing that her brother could not do for her. Just as her mother left the room, the first beam of the morning sun glanced through the window. "Put out the lamp, George," said she, "and draw back the window curtain, that I may see the sun rise. It is the last time that I shall ever see it rise, and oh! it is a glorious sight. I should have been glad, if I had been permitted to live longer, for this world is beautiful, and I wanted to see you a wise and good man, but that I hope you will be, though I am not here to see it; and always remember me, George, and think how dearly I loved you. Raise me up a little, and put the pillows under my shoulders—there, that will do. Oh! George, I can't see! Take hold of my hand." George took her hand, she pressed his gently; and he watched, scarcely venturing to breathe, lest it should prevent him from hearing her words when she should next speak. But gradually he felt her hand relax from the pressure of his; he looked at her lips, but they were still; he put his face to her mouth, but no breath escaped from it; all was motionless. He was conscious that she was dead, but so sweet, so placid was the repose into which she was sunk, that he was unwilling to stir, lest he should destroy the heavenly feeling. How long he thus hung over her, he was himself unconscious; but when, at length, he was interrupted by the entrance of some of the family, he left the room, and hastened into the open air, as if unwilling to mingle the hallowed feelings which pervaded his mind with the more boisterous grief of the other members of the family.

Violent grief, for such a death, George felt to be impossible; and though he never ceased to think of her loss but with the most affectionate regret, his sorrow was so blended with the conviction that the change was a happy one for her, that it soon softened down to a holy and tender remembrance, which served only to stimulate his mind to virtue and piety; and the sweet proof that she had given so short a time before her death of her affection for him, made him cherish with grateful pleasure the recollection of the Pet Lamb.