It would be hard to tell who took the most pleasure in these letters from our little travellers,—those who wrote them, or those who received them. One thing is certain,—that they were all carefully kept and laid away, and some time, when they are older, Maggie and Bessie may find some amusement in looking over these records of their childish days. Many a pleasant scene and circumstance will they bring back to them, and some not so bright perhaps; for the little ones have their trials, as we know, and do not, I fear, forget as readily as we grown people would believe. It is strange we do not see that too; looking back, as we often do, with a sort of tender pity for our own former grieved and mortified little selves, and remembering with such distinctness the sharp or quick word of reproof, the thoughtless teasing, or the loud, sudden laugh at some innocent speech or action.

Little did Bessie think when she wrote that last letter, how soon her wishes to see her dear friends were to be gratified.

It had been intended to take the steamer down Lake Ontario and the St. Lawrence to Montreal: but on the day before that on which our friends were to leave Niagara, there was a severe storm which tossed and roughened the waters of the great lake; and fearing that Maggie might have an attack of the old enemy she so dreaded, and knowing that fresh water seasickness is even worse than that which comes from the salt water, the elders of the party decided not to take the boat down the lake.

They therefore went by the cars to Kingston, in Canada, and, after passing a day there, took the boat down the river St. Lawrence; for here Maggie had nothing to fear from her foe. There was no part of their long journey which the children enjoyed more than their passage down this beautiful river, so different from any thing they had yet seen. The Lake of the Thousand Isles, as the entrance to the St. Lawrence is called, full of little islets up to the number that is named, a thousand: some larger, and covered with graceful, feathery trees; some so small as scarce to afford room for some solitary tree or bush; clustering together so as scarce to leave room for the steamer to pass, then again separating, with a broad, clear sheet of water between them.

Here something occurred which greatly interested not only the children, but also the grown people on board. As the steamer was slowly making her way between two small islands, the passengers saw a very exciting chase before them. A fine stag was swimming across the river, pursued by dogs and two boats with men in them. The poor beast was trying with all his strength to escape from his cruel enemies, and the sympathies of all the passengers were with him. The men in the boats had no guns, but a net, which they were trying to throw over his head; but each time they neared him, he shot forward beyond their reach. Maggie and Bessie were in a state of the wildest excitement, as they watched the innocent and beautiful creature panting with terror and fatigue; and their elders were hardly less so. Bessie held fast her father’s hand, gazing with eager eyes and parted lips, her color coming and going, her little frame trembling with distress and indignation; and Maggie seized upon Uncle Ruthven and danced up and down in frantic suspense and alarm at the danger of the poor beast. His courage seemed giving out, and his pursuers cheered in triumph; when, summoning up all his strength, he suddenly turned, and, passing almost under the bow of the steamer, made for the opposite and nearer shore, thus gaining upon his enemies as they took time to turn their boats; and cleaving the water, almost like lightning, he reached the thickly wooded bank, bounded up, and was lost to sight among the forest trees, and beyond the reach of his would-be destroyers. A cheer burst from those on board, as the noble creature disappeared in safety,—a cheer in which Maggie joined with all her heart, “for I couldn’t help it, and most forgot it was rather tomboyish,” she afterwards said. But no one found fault with her: indeed no one could. As for Bessie, she fairly cried, but it was only with pleasure and the feeling of relief.

Later in the day, they were greatly interested in seeing the shooting of the Rapids, as the passage of the steamer over the foaming waters is called. It was a curious sight. The water foamed and bubbled around the steamer, seeming as though it were eager to draw it down; but the vessel glided on, rose a little to the billows, plunged, rose again, and was once more in smooth waters. There were several of these rapids to be passed; and, although our little girls had been rather frightened at the first, they soon became accustomed to it, and enjoyed the swift descent. The crew of the steamer were all Canadians; and, as they came to each rapid, they struck up some cheery boat-song, which rose sweet and clear above the roar of the waves, and put heart and courage into the more timid ones among the passengers.

They soon reached Montreal, where they spent a week; and here again the opportunity to do a kind act, and leave a blessing behind them, came in the way of our little sisters.

They were one day passing through the long upper hall of the hotel at which they stayed, when they met the chamber-maid who waited on their rooms, crying bitterly. The girl, who was quite young, had her apron thrown over her head, and seemed in great distress.

“What is the matter, Matilda?” asked nurse, who was with the children.

“I’ve lost my place,” sobbed Matilda; “and I’ve my mother and my two little brothers to take care of. Oh! whatever will I do?”

“Why are you turned away?” asked nurse, who thought the girl attended to her duties very well, and was civil and obliging.

Then Matilda took down her apron, showing her face all streaked with tears, and told her story.

She had, it appeared, been unfortunate,—perhaps rather careless,—and had broken one or two articles, the loss of which had greatly vexed the house-keeper, who had told her she should leave her place the next time she broke any thing. This had made her more careful; but that morning an accident had occurred which might have happened to any one. Turning the corner of a corridor, with a pitcher full of water in her hand, some one had run against her, the pitcher was knocked from her hold, and broken into a hundred pieces. The house-keeper would hear of no excuse, and bade her leave the house at once, or pay for the pitcher.

“And I haven’t a penny,” said the girl; “for I sent all my wages to my mother yesterday to pay her rent, and there’s nothing for it but I must go. And what is to become of us all, if I don’t get another place right away?”

Nurse tried to comfort her, by saying she would soon find another situation; but Matilda replied that was not so easy, and she feared they would all suffer before she found it; and went away, still crying bitterly. Maggie and Bessie were very sorry for her.

“I wonder if we haven’t money enough to pay for the pitcher, Bessie,” said Maggie. “If we had, then maybe the house-keeper would let her stay; and if she won’t we could give Matilda the money to keep her mother and brothers from starving.”

“Yes, that’s a good thought of you, Maggie,” said Bessie; “and there’s the house-keeper now. Let’s run and ask her quick: may we, nursey?”

Nurse gave permission, though she did not think the children would be successful in their errand of kindness; and said low, either to herself or baby, whom she carried in her arms,—

“Eh! the little dears will do naught with her. She’s a cross-grained creature, that house-keeper, and as short in her way as a snapping-turtle.”

Maggie’s courage began to fail her when she and Bessie ran up to the house-keeper, and heard the severe tone in which she was speaking to another servant. It was true that her manner and speech were apt to be rather harsh and short in dealing with those about her, especially to the girls who were under her orders; but it must be said in her excuse that she led rather a trying life, and had a good deal to vex and trouble her.

Maggie and Bessie stood waiting behind the house-keeper’s stout figure, till she had, as Maggie afterwards said, “finished up her scoldings,” when Bessie said rather timidly:—

“Mrs. Housekeeper?”

“Well, what’s wanted now?” asked the woman, turning sharply round; but, when she saw who was speaking to her, her face softened and her manner changed.

Now the worst of all this poor woman’s troubles was the long tedious sickness of her only child, a little girl about Bessie’s age, but not bright and happy, and able to run about and play like our little “princess.” This poor child had been ailing for more than six months, sometimes suffering a great deal, and always very weak; and her mother had not much time to give to her, since she was obliged to attend to her duties about the hotel of which she had charge.

When the child was well enough, she was put into a perambulator and taken out for fresh air; and she had just returned from one of these rides on the day before this, as Maggie and Bessie came in from a drive with the elders of their party. They had been to visit an Indian encampment just outside the city, and returned laden with all manner of pretty trifles purchased for the dear ones at home, and some for themselves.

They had each of them also a handful of flowers given to them by some friend; and, as they passed the sick child lying in her wagon, and turned towards her with a look of sympathy, Bessie saw her eyes fixed longingly on the sweet blossoms she held.

She stopped and turning to Maggie said,—

“I think I’ll give my flowers to that sick child, she looks as if she’d like them,” and then going to the child she put the flowers in her hand, and said, “Here are some flowers for you, and I am sorry you are sick.”

“And here’s a basket for you,” said Maggie, coming forward with her offering too; and she gave a pretty little basket, the work of the Indians, which she had bought for her own use: “you can put Bessie’s flowers in it, and it will look lovely. See, let me fix them for you,” and in two minutes her skilful little fingers had arranged the flowers most tastefully, greatly to the child’s delight.

“And am I to keep the basket?” asked the sick child.

“Oh, yes! for ever and ever if you like,” said Maggie; “and when the flowers are faded you can take them out and put some more in.”

“I don’t often have flowers,” said the child; “but I love them so: only I don’t like to take all yours,” she added, looking at Bessie.

“Oh! she is going to have half mine,” said Maggie; “you needn’t be troubled about that. Good-by now,” and she and Bessie ran after their parents, leaving the sick child brightened and happy.

Her mother had been standing near enough to hear and see all that had passed; and so you will not wonder that now, when she turned and saw Maggie and Bessie, her harsh look and tone became gentle and pleasant.

“Oh! it’s you, you little dears,” she said. “Now, is there ever a thing I can do for you?”

“Yes,” said Bessie. “We are so sorry for Matilda, and we wanted to know if you would let us pay for the pitcher she broke if we have money enough, and try her just once more?”

“I like to please you,” said the woman; “but Matilda is so careless I cannot put up with her.”

“But it really wasn’t her fault this time,” pleaded Bessie; “she says a man ran against her, and knocked it out of her hand when she was carrying it so carefully.”

“And we’ll pay for it if we have enough,” said Maggie.

“And her mother is sick,” said Bessie; “and you know we ought to be sorry and kind to sick people; and you know, too, we ought to forgive as we want to be forgiven. Couldn’t you do it for the sick mother’s sake? And maybe this will be a good lesson to Matilda.”

“I’ll keep her for your sake, and strive to be more patient with her too,” said the house-keeper; “and I think you’ll never lack for comfort and kindness when you’re sick yourselves: at least, not if the Lord repays what’s done for Him, as the good book says He does.”

“And how much must we pay for the pitcher?” asked Bessie.

“Not a penny. I don’t know as Matilda was to blame this time, and I didn’t listen to her story as I should, I own; but I’ve been so put about this morning. You go your ways, you little dears; and Matilda shall stay for your good word.”

Now the children did not know it, but probably the good word of the two little strangers would have gone but little way with the angry house-keeper, had it not been for the kindness done to her sick child the day before; but so it was, and so the one good thing sprang from the other.

They left Montreal the next morning, and then came two long days of railway travelling, ending in Boston. Here they stayed only a few hours, and then started afresh about six o’clock in the evening, bound “for Narragansett Bay,” papa said, when he was asked where they were now going. Bessie was so thoroughly tired that she was soon glad to nestle her head against her father and go to sleep: a very comfortable sleep it was too, from which she did not wake even when she was carried from the cars to a carriage, and from the carriage into a certain house. Maggie, too, after refusing similar accommodation from Uncle Ruthven, and holding herself very upright, and stretching her eyes very wide open, at last gave in, and accepted the repeated offer of his arm as a pillow.

But they both roused up at last when they were brought into that house. Where were they now? and whose voices were those, so familiar and so dear, but not heard for many weeks?

Maggie opened her eyes with a start, wide-awake on the instant, and, immediately understanding all, gave a shriek of delight, sprang off the sofa where Uncle Ruthven had placed her, and was fast about Mrs. Rush’s neck, exclaiming,—

“It’s Newport! it is Newport! and this is Aunt May’s house, and papa has surprised us. Oh! lovely, lovely! Bessie! Bessie! wake up, and hear the good news.”

Bessie slowly opened her eyes at the call, not yet understanding; but as she saw the face that was bending over her, and knew that here was her “own dear solger,” whom she had so longed to see, she gave a long sigh of intense satisfaction, and, after her usual manner when her heart was full of love and tenderness, let two words speak for her,—

“Uncle Horace.”

There was no surprise in the tone, only unspeakable pleasure and affection; and she laid her head against his shoulder with an expression of utter content.

“This is the very best thing in all our travels,” said Maggie. “Where is May Bessie, Aunt May?”

“Fast asleep in her cradle, and I can’t let you peep at her to-night,” said Mrs. Rush. “We’ll keep that for the morning.”

Mamma said all other pleasures must be kept for the morning, save that of following May Bessie’s example; and Bessie, who could scarcely keep her eyes open, even for the purpose of looking at her beloved Colonel Rush, was quite ready to obey; but Maggie thought she had had sleep enough for one night, and would like at once to make acquaintance with all her new surroundings.

“But we are all going to rest, for it is nearly midnight,” said the colonel; which caused Maggie to change her mind, as she had no fancy for staying up alone; and she was now eager to go to sleep at once, so that “morning might come before she knew it,” and she went off saying,—

“I never saw children who had such heaps and heaps of happiness as we do. I don’t know how I’m ever going to make up enough gratitude for it.”

Perhaps her gratitude to the kind hand which showered so much happiness upon her was best shown in the sunny spirit with which she took both trials and blessings, and in her readiness to share the latter with all whom she met.