IIT would be impossible to tell what joy and gratitude filled the hearts of all at the Lake House that night. It was true, indeed, that the dear one who had been snatched from such a fearful death was very ill from the fright and shock, weak and exhausted, and dreadfully nervous. Her arm, too, was badly hurt with the long-continued strain upon it, and her sweet face scratched and bruised with the falling stones and gravel; but the precious life had been spared, by God's great mercy, and they might hope, that, in a few days, she would be herself again.

The whole family had been sadly shaken by the terrible accident. Not only on that night, but for several succeeding ones, Maggie and Bessie were constantly starting awake with cries of fear, and then they would sob and tremble so, that it was difficult to quiet them. Maggie would burst into tears for the merest trifle,—sometimes, even if she were spoken to suddenly, and then would cry and laugh by turns; and Bessie was often found in some corner, with her face hidden, sobbing as if her heart would break. "Just because I could not help it, mamma," she would say, when asked the reason; and she would shudder and quiver all over, at the least mention of that dreadful day. The shock had been too much for the tender young hearts, and it took them some time to recover from it.

It was necessary to keep the house very still, on account of Aunt Bessie, who was so very nervous that the least sound disturbed her; and roguish, noisy Frankie was, by Aunt Patty's earnest request, allowed to go to her house, where, for a few days, he lorded it over that humble servant of his to his heart's content. But there was no need to send the little girls away; they were only too quiet, and moped about the house in a way that was quite melancholy to see. The weather was damp and rainy, so they could not be much out of doors; and, although their friends did all they could to divert them with stories, reading aloud, and games, they did not seem able to shake off their sadness. The truth was, they could not forget Aunt Bessie's face, as they had seen it lying on Uncle Ruthven's shoulder, white and still; and it scarcely seemed possible to them that she could ever be well again.

But one day, grandmamma, coming out of Aunt Bessie's room, found the two little maidens sitting disconsolately on the stairs, looking wistfully at the door of the sick-room. She stepped back, spoke a few words to those within, and then, coming to the children, asked them if they would like to go and see the dear invalid. Bessie sprang eagerly forward, but Maggie, with the fear of seeing Aunt Bessie look as she had done on that dreadful day, hung back a little, till Bessie urged her forward.

They went in with hushed steps, for grandmamma said they must be very quiet, stay but a moment, and on no account must they speak of the accident. There lay Aunt Bessie on the pillows. Very white still was her face; but life and love looked out at them from the dear eyes: it was Aunt Bessie's own sweet smile which welcomed them, her own gentle voice which told them how glad she was to see them, her own warm kiss which met theirs.

"Aunt Bessie!" said her little namesake, and then she nestled her face on the pillows beside her, and said no more. But there was no need: there was a whole world of tenderness and joy in those two words, and Aunt Bessie felt it.

Maggie said nothing, but stood with swimming eyes, and rising color, gazing at her aunt, till Mrs. Stanton said,—

"Have you not a word for me, dear Maggie?"

Then Maggie gave a wistful kind of a smile, and tried to speak, but broke down in a half-choked sob.

"Do not be worried about me, dearie," said Aunt Bessie; "I shall be quite well again in a few days."

Maggie did not answer, except by gently kissing the poor hurt hand, which lay upon the coverlet; but it was plainly to be seen that she was a good deal excited; and Uncle Ruthven, fearing one of her sudden bursts of crying, said the children had stayed long enough, and led them from the room.

Then Maggie's tears came forth, but they were happy tears, for she and Bessie were both satisfied about Aunt Bessie now; and she soon wiped them away, and from this time was her own bright, merry self.

And that afternoon there was a new subject of interest for them, for the weather cleared up warm and beautiful, and it was thought safe to bring Dolly to the better quarters provided for her. Mrs. Bradford and Mrs. Porter went to tell her what was to be done, and then came John Porter and one of his brothers to carry her over. They lifted her bed between them, and moved as carefully as possible, but it was a rough way, with many ups and downs, and spite of all their care Dolly suffered very much.

As they left the shanty, the sick child raised her head a little, and, looking towards the side where her flower-pots stood, cried out,—

"Oh! my posy boxes, bring 'em along, Lem."

Lem obeyed, and, taking up the two flower-pots which contained the scragly, sickly looking plants, trotted along beside Mrs. Bradford with one on each arm.

"She sets such a heap on the old things," he said to the lady as if in excuse. "I'm sure I don't know what for; but since she's been better, she's like crazed about 'em, and would have 'em brought in every day for her to see. I've watered 'em all along 'cause he told me to."

The he of whom Lem spoke was Mr. Stanton; and whatever he said and did had become right in the boy's eyes. Lem had improved a good deal during these three weeks, though the change was by no means so surprising in him as it was in Dolly. Dolly was trying in her own simple, ignorant way, to please that Heavenly Friend of whom she had so lately learned; while Lem, as yet, looked no higher than man's praise. Still it was much that such a hold had been gained upon the boy. He looked up to Mr. Stanton with a blind admiration and desire for his approval, which kept him from much mischief and wrong-doing. It was very strange, he thought, that this magnificent gentleman—whose appearance, tremendous strength, and wonderful adventures, made him a great hero in Lem's eyes—should trouble and interest himself so much about a poor, ragged boy, for whom every one had a hard word; and who, Lem knew very well, richly deserved all that could be said of him. To please Mr. Stanton had now become the aim of Lem's life, and with this purpose he was learning to give up many of his old bad ways. Mr. Stanton had even partly succeeded in curing him of his habit of using bad words every time he spoke. One day when he was telling the boy a story in which he was much interested, Lem suddenly broke out with some expression of delight, mingling with it a dreadful oath. Mr. Stanton immediately ceased his tale; and, when asked by Lem why he did so, told him that he could not talk to a boy who dared to take the name of his Maker in vain. Lem was disappointed, and angry too, but it did him good; and when, the next day, the gentleman offered to finish the interrupted story, he was very careful not to offend again. This happened more than once, and each time Lem became more unwilling to risk not only the loss of his story, but also the look of grave displeasure on his new friend's face. He also tried to keep the old place a little tidier, and, when he knew that any of the family from the Lake House were coming there, would wash his face and hands; and a comb having been brought by some of the ladies for Dolly's use, he would draw it a few times through his tangled locks. On the day before this, Mrs. Bradford had given him an old suit of Harry's, and he was now dressed in this, which, though too large for him, was at least clean and whole; and a proud boy was Lem as he walked by the lady's side.

Lem thought himself rather a hero, and not without reason, for the share he had had in saving young Mrs. Stanton's life; and was much inclined to talk of it to any one who would listen to him. He was still rather shy of the boys; but since the little girls had been so often to see Dolly, he had been quite friendly with them; and they were ready enough to allow him all the credit he deserved for the service he had rendered to their dear Aunt Bessie. Poor boy! praise and encouragement were so new to him, that it was perhaps no wonder he craved all that could fall to him.

On that memorable afternoon, he had been sitting on the rock in front of the hut, watching our friends as they sauntered down the road below him. He saw them stop, some sitting down to rest, while Mr. and Mrs. Stanton and the little girls wandered about in search of flowers.

He saw the lady fall, and was off in an instant, dashing over every thing which lay in his way, with a reckless, headlong speed, that soon brought him to the spot. Thanks to his wild, rambling life, Lem knew every foot of the mountain, and, even as he went, thought of what he might do, quite sure that he could keep his footing on that narrow ledge, if he could but once reach it. How well he had done, we know; and Lem knew right well himself, and meant that others should know it too. Too much puffed up in his own conceit, he certainly was; but we must remember how ignorant he was, and even this was better than that he should feel himself the miserable, degraded outcast of a few weeks since, whose "hand was against every man, and every man's hand against him."

He had not seen Mr. Stanton since the day of the accident; for, now that his wife was ill, the gentleman had not the time and attention to give to him and Dolly that he had before; but he knew that he was not forgotten, for more than one kind message had been sent to him.

"Think I could get a sight of my gentleman, to-day?" he asked of Mrs. Bradford.

"Of my brother?" said the lady. "Yes, I think so; he said he would see you when you came to the Lake House."

"That was a fustrate job I did for him—getting the lady up; now, warn't it? He said he'd never forget it."

"We shall none of us forget it," said Mrs. Bradford; "but, Lem, when one has done a great kindness to another person, it is better not to talk of it too much."

"No, I aint goin' to," said Lem, with a self-satisfied air. "I'll tell you if it hadn't been for me, the lady would have been gone afore those fellers got there with the ropes. He couldn't ha' held on much longer, and like enough they'd both gone down together."

Mrs. Bradford shuddered at the thought.

"Now, what do you s'pose he's goin' to do for me?" continued Lem. "Somethin' fustrate?"

"I think he is going to try to teach you to do right, and to put you in the way of earning an honest living, Lem. What would you like him to do for you?"

"Well," said Lem, "you give me these clothes, and now I'd just as lieve he'd give me one of his old hats and a red shirt; so I'd be decent-like; and then I'd like him to get me to be an engine driver on one of them railroads. If it wasn't for Dolly I'd like to be sent off on a ship to the place where the tigers and elephants is, so I could hunt 'em. But then she'd be lonesome after me; and if I was engine driver, I could come home every spell and see her. And I'm goin' to fix her a fustrate home, when I get a livin'. But I was thinkin' what will I do with her meantime. Do you think if he spoke a word for her, Porters would let her stay round their place? I guess she wouldn't plague 'em none now; and, when she gets well, she could do errands and such like for them."

Mrs. Bradford thought this a fitting time to tell Lem what he must know sooner or later.

"Dolly is going to a better home than any that you or we can give her, Lem," she said, gently. "She is going to that home which Jesus has made ready for her,—His own bright, glorious heaven, where she will never be tired or sick or hungry any more."

Lem stopped short in the path, and turned to the lady.

"She aint, I tell you," he said, fiercely. "You mean she's a goin' to be an angel,—what she's always talking about nowadays,—and she'll have to die for that,—he said so,—and she aint agoin' to. She's better now, I know; for she don't screech out with the pain like she used to."

"No," said Mrs. Bradford, standing still beside him, as he looked down the path after Dolly and her bearers, "she does not suffer as she did; but she is more ill and grows weaker every day. She cannot live many days, Lem; and she knows that she is going to Jesus, and wanted that you should be told."

Lem set down the flower-pots, and dug his knuckles into his eyes.

"She shan't neither," he exclaimed. "I'm goin' to ask him to make her well. He can do it, I know; and, if he will, I won't ask him for nothin' else along of the good turn I done him, gettin' up the lady."

"My poor boy," said Mrs. Bradford, pityingly, "neither my brother, nor any other person can do more for Dolly than to make her comfortable for the few days she will be here. Her life is not in his hands, or in the doctor's, but in those of God, who sees best to take her to Himself."

Lem threw himself passionately upon the ground.

"'Taint fair," he sobbed. "She's all I've got, and I always was good to her, now; ask her if I wasn't. I always gave her half what I got, and I saved her many a beatin'."

"Yes," said Mrs. Bradford, sitting down beside him, and laying her hand with a soothing touch upon his arm, "Dolly says you have been a good brother to her, and the only thing that makes her sorry to go is the fear that you may miss her."

"Like enough I'll miss her," said Lem, in a sullen kind of sorrow.

"But," said Mrs. Bradford, "you may see her again if you will live so that Jesus may some day take you to dwell with Him in His glorious home. Will you not try to do this, Lem?"

"Couldn't no way," replied Lem, sitting upright; "they say only good folks get to heaven, and don't you know they say I'm the worst boy here about? They used to say Doll was the worst girl too, and—don't you tell nobody I said it—she did do a heap of bad things, that's so! How's she goin' to get to heaven?"

"God says in His Word, 'believe on the Lord Jesus Christ and thou shalt be saved.' Dolly does believe on her Saviour, and He will wash her soul from all its sin and fit it to live with Him. He has given her but little time to serve Him on earth since she has learned to love and trust Him; but she is doing all that she can: she is sorry for past sin, and whatever she thinks Jesus would like her to do, she tries to do."

"She's gettin' awful good, that's true," said Lem. "She made you take back old Miss Mapes' handkercher, and made me go and tell Miss Jones she was sorry for unhookin' her clothes-line and lettin' down the clothes in the dirt; and, oh! do you think, there's the biggest kind of a squash down in Todd's cornfield, and I was a goin' to get it for him, and Dol coaxed me not. She said 'twant right; and, when I said I guessed God had liever he'd have it than Farmer Todd, she said, No: God gave it to Todd, and so he ought to have it. She was so set about it, I had to tell her I wouldn't take it."

"Such things show Dolly's true repentance and love to her Saviour," said Mrs. Bradford. "If we wish to please Jesus and come to Him, and are truly sorry for the wrong things we have done, we will try to undo them so far as we can."

She talked to Lem a little more of Dolly's new hope, and the Saviour's great love and forgiveness, and then told him they had better go on.

"Wonder what she wants these for, if she's goin' away to leave 'em," said Lem, sorrowfully, as he took up his flower-pots.

"Sick people often take such fancies," said Mrs. Bradford; "and when Dolly has gone you will be glad to think that you have pleased her by even such a small thing as caring for her plants."

"And I do think they've picked up a bit," said Lem. "See, this one has two buds on it. I wouldn't wonder if they made flowers."

When Mrs. Bradford and Lem reached the tool-house, or "Dolly's home," as the children now called it, they found the sick girl laid comfortably in the neat bed which had been provided for her; while Mrs. Rush and Mrs. Porter were beside her, feeding her with some nice beef-tea.

"Good Lem," she cried, when she saw the flower-pots; and then, turning to Mrs Porter, she asked, "Could you let them stay here?"

"To be sure, child," said Mrs. Porter; and Mrs. Bradford, taking the flower-pots from Lem, placed them in the little casement window opposite to Dolly's bed. Dolly looked pleased, but she was too much worn out to say more; and, when she had taken her tea, turned her face on her pillow, and fell into the most quiet sleep she had had since her illness.