Good morning, my young friend! A merry Christmas, or happy New Year, or at least a pleasant holiday to you;—for holiday I hope it is, as it is on such festivals, when there is no danger of lessons being forgotten, that I best love to see around me a group of happy children, all the happier for having Aunt Kitty to direct their plays—to show them the pleasantest walks, or, when they are tired both of playing and walking, to sit with them by the fireside and tell them some entertaining story. I am never however entirely without such young companions. I have always with me an orphan niece—Harriet Armand—who is about ten years old. Her father and mother died when she was quite an infant, and she has ever since been to me as my own child. Then I have another niece—Mary Mackay—just six years old, the merriest little girl on whom the sun ever shone, who, as her father lives quite near me, spends part—her mother says the largest part—of every day with me. Besides these, there are Susan May and Lucy Ellis, who, living in a neat, pretty village near us, seldom let a fine day pass without seeing Harriet and me.

I am the very intimate and confidential friend of all these little girls. To me they intrust all their secrets. I know all the pleasant surprises they intend for each other; am consulted on birth-day presents, and have helped them out of many troubles, which, though they might seem little to larger people, were to them very serious affairs. I encourage them to tell me, not only what they say and do, but what they think and feel. Sometimes when they are a little fretful and discontented because their friends have not done just as they wished, we talk the matter over together, and find that they have themselves been unreasonable, and then the fretfulness is dismissed, and they try by a very pleasant manner to make amends for their hard thoughts and unjust feelings. If any one has really injured them, or been unkind to them, and I find them too angry easily to forgive it, I bid them put on their bonnets, and we go out together to look for their good-humor. Then, as we see the gay flowers, and inhale the sweet perfumes, and listen to the merry birds that hop around us, twittering and chirping, my little friends forget to be angry; and while I talk to them of the good Father in heaven, who made all these beautiful and pleasant things for his children on earth, they feel such love and thankfulness to him, that it seems easy for his sake even to forgive those who have done them wrong. These are Aunt Kitty's lessons,—they are lessons for the heart, and such as I hope all my readers will be pleased to learn.

The walk which these little girls and I best love is to a small house, about half a mile from mine. Small as it is, it looks so pleasantly with its white walls, (it is freshly whitewashed every spring,) and green shutters, its neat paling and pretty flower-garden, peeping from the midst of green trees, that any one might be contented to live there. In this house lives a widow, with one only child, a daughter, a year older than my niece Harriet. I will tell you their story, which I think will make you feel almost as much interested in them as we do, and you will then understand why we like them so well, and visit them so often.

About three years ago, my little friends, Susan May and Lucy Ellis, began to talk a great deal of a child who had lately come to the school in the village, which they attended. They said her name was Alice Scott; that her teachers thought a great deal of her because she learned her lessons so well, and that her schoolmates loved her because she was so good-humored and merry. She had told them that she used to live a great way off, and that her father and mother had left her other home because it was sickly, and had come here because they had heard it was a healthy place. The girls said Alice looked very well herself, but that Mrs. Scott was pale, and that Alice said she was often sick. "A stranger and sick," thought I, "then I must go to see her"—and so I did, very soon.

I found her a pleasing, as well as a good woman, though she seemed sad, except when Alice was with her, and then she was happy and cheerful enough. She told me that her husband was a carpenter, and as he was an industrious and honest man, he had as much work given to him as he could do, and would have made money enough for them to live on very comfortably, had he not been so often ill himself, and obliged to pay so much to the doctors who attended his family when they were ill. This made them very poor, but it was not being poor, she said, that made her look and feel sorrowful,—it was the thought of three sweet little babies, all younger than Alice, who had died and been buried side by side in the green churchyard of the place from which they had moved. Then she would check herself, and say how very wrong it was for her to grieve so much, when God had still left her dear Alice with her, and she knew her babies were all happy in heaven.

Mrs. Scott was a very neat and careful woman, and poor as they were, she made her home quite comfortable—a great deal more comfortable than that of many people who have more money in their purses, and better furniture in their houses. Their little court-yard too was filled with pretty flowers, for Alice loved gardening, and was never so happy as when cutting her finest carnations and roses to dress her mother's parlor, and make nosegays for her young friends. And yet Alice was always happy, and so you felt she was the moment you looked at her. She was now a healthy, fine-looking child of nine years old. Her very eyes seemed to sparkle with pleasure; she never walked when she was alone, but bounded along like a young fawn. Her voice was very sweet, and was often heard, when she was with her young companions, ringing out in a gay laugh, or when she was by herself, singing some of the little hymns which her mother had taught her. Yet, gay as Alice was, her laughter was hushed, her bounding step became cautious and noiseless, and her bright eyes were full of tears in a moment, if she saw either her father or her mother suffering from any cause. When they first came to the village, Mrs. Scott was subject to very distressing attacks of pain in the head, and it was touching to see the playful Alice changed into a quiet, watchful nurse.

A year had passed away, and Mrs. Scott was healthier and happier and dear little Alice livelier than ever, when many people in our village and in the country around, and especially many children, became ill with a very dangerous disease, called scarlet fever. My little niece Harriet was one of the first who had it, and she was so ill with it that we feared she would die. As soon as she was well enough to travel, I took her to her grandfather's, about twenty miles off, for a change of air. When we left home, Mr. and Mrs. Scott and Alice were still well. Alice, who loved Harriet very much, wished greatly to see her before she went away, if only to bid her good-by, but I would not consent for fear she should take the disease. Her mother however gave her permission to walk out on the road by which we were to pass, and take one look at Harriet, as we drove by. So when we were about half a mile from home, there stood Alice by the road-side, with a bunch of flowers in her hand. As we passed she threw the flowers into the carriage and called out "Good-by, good-by; dear Harriet, I hope you will come back soon, and well."

I raised Harriet from the pillow on which she was leaning in a corner of the carriage, to the window, that she might see Alice; and as I looked at Alice's red cheeks and smiling face and lively motion, while she ran along by the side of the carriage for a few minutes, I felt sadder than ever to see Harriet so pale and weak.

Now, my little readers, if any of you have a grandfather and grandmother, and have ever gone to visit them after having been ill, you will know how very glad Harriet's grandfather and grandmother were to see her, and how anxious they were to gratify and amuse her. Harriet got well very slowly, and was obliged for some weeks to be much confined to the house, and often to suffer pain. She was a good child, and bore all this so patiently, that when at the end of six weeks we were about returning home, her grandfather gave her a gold piece, worth two dollars and a half, bidding her spend it as she liked. This, you know, was a great deal of money for a little girl, and as Harriet had never had half so much at one time, she was quite wild with delight, thinking at first that it would buy every thing for which she had ever wished. On calculation, however, she found it would take it all to buy one such large wax doll as a little girl who had lately visited her had brought with her. The wax doll she was determined to have, for she thought it by far the most beautiful thing she had ever seen, and so her money was at once disposed of in her own mind.

During the first part of her ride home, Harriet talked of nothing but her doll, which I was to get from the city for her as soon as I could. She had not quite decided what would be the prettiest name for it, or the most becoming color for its dress, when we stopped at a friend's house, about eight miles from our home, where we were to rest for two or three hours. Here there was a very clever girl, a little older than Harriet, who brought out all her books and toys to amuse her. Among the books were several of those entertaining little volumes, called the Boys' and Girls' Library, which Harriet had never read. The little girl offered to lend them to her, and I allowed her to take one of them, as she promised to be very careful of it. As soon as we were in the carriage, Harriet begged me to read for her from this little book; and she was not only much amused with it, but I was able to point out to her some very useful lessons it contained.

We did not arrive at home till after sunset, and as Harriet was much fatigued, she was soon put to bed. Her room opened into mine, and I went in early in the morning to see how she was. She was already awake, and gave me no time to speak to her, for as soon as she saw me, she cried out, "Now, Aunt Kitty, I know what to do with my money."

"Why, my love," said I, "I thought you were going to buy a doll with it, like Eliza Lewis's, and you know I told you that such a doll would take it all."

"Oh yes, I know all that, Aunt Kitty, but I've something a great deal better to do with it now,—I am going to buy books with it. It will buy five volumes of the Boys' and Girls' Library; for see here, Aunt Kitty," showing me the price which was marked on a leaf of the book she had brought home the day before, "see here, this only cost fifty cents, and I've counted, and there are five times fifty cents in my two dollars and a half."

"And are you very sure," said I, "that you will always like the books better than the doll, and that when you have finished reading them you will not feel sorry for having changed your mind?"

"Oh no! I am very sure I shall not, for you know I could only play with my doll now and then, and if I kept it all to myself I should soon grow tired of it, and if I let the other girls play with it, it would soon get spoiled or broken, and I should have nothing left for my money; but it will take me a long time to read through so many new books, and when they get spoiled or torn up, if I remember what was in them, I shall still have something for my gold piece. And then you know, Aunt Kitty, you cannot play with my doll, but you can read my books."

I was always gratified that my little girl should wish me to share in her pleasures, and so I told her, adding that I thought her choice of the books rather than the doll was very wise. At the end of the book which Harriet had just read, were the names of all the volumes of the Boys' and Girls' Library that had yet been published. Harriet turned to this leaf, and began to show me which of them she intended to buy. I told her, however, that she had better not think any more of them just now, but that after breakfast she might write down their names and give them to me, and I would send for them to a bookseller in the city. In the mean time I reminded her that she had not yet thanked her Heavenly Father for his kind care of her while she was away, or asked him to bless her through this day.

I then left her, as she was dressed, and went to the breakfast parlor, intending to put some questions to the servant who was there about my neighbors, which I had no time to ask the evening before. I now heard very sad news indeed. The servant told me that a great many children, and even some grown persons, had died with scarlet fever. Among the last was Mr. Scott; and Alice had been near death,—indeed was still very ill. This news made me very sad, and when Harriet heard it she forgot both her gold coin and the books it was to buy, while she begged to go with me to see the sick child. As I was no longer afraid of her taking the disease, since persons usually have the scarlet fever but once, I consented, and we set out as soon as we had breakfasted.

As we came in sight of the house, we found it looking very gloomy. Though the morning was pleasant and the weather warm, the windows were all closely shut. The little court-yard looked neglected; it was full of weeds. Alice's flowers seemed to have withered on their stalks, and wanted trimming and training sadly. We did not see a creature, or hear a sound, and every thing was so still and seemed so lifeless, that it made me feel melancholy, and Harriet appeared a little afraid, for she drew close to my side and took hold of my hand. When we came quite near, I found the door was ajar, and we went in at once without knocking. The parlor door stood open, and I looked in, hoping to find some one there who would tell Mrs. Scott of my coming, as I was afraid we might disturb Alice by going straight to her room. There was no one in the parlor, and bidding Harriet wait there for me, I stepped very softly on, to the room door. I intended to knock at this door so lightly, that though Mrs. Scott might hear me, it would not wake Alice if she were asleep. When I came near the room, however, I heard a sound like some one speaking very low, yet not whispering. The door was not latched, and every thing was so quiet that I stood still and listened. I not only knew that it was Alice's voice, but I could even hear what she said. Her tone was very feeble, as if from her own great weakness, yet sharp, like that in which persons speak who are frightened or distressed. She appeared, poor child, to be both frightened and distressed. It seemed to me that she was complaining to her mother of the darkness and silence around her, while her mother did not answer her at all, but every now and then moaned as if in great pain.

"Mother, dear mother," said Alice, "speak to me; and open the window, mother—pray open the window and give me some light. I am afraid, mother—I am afraid, it is so dark and still—so like the grave."

For a moment the child was silent, as if waiting for her mother's answer; but as no one spoke to her, she cried out again, in still sharper tones, "Oh, mother, mother, where are you? Wake up, mother, dear mother, and open the window and let me look once, only once, on the blessed light, and see your face; and then mother, I will be quiet and go to sleep, and you may shut it all up again."

I began now to be quite anxious about Mrs. Scott, who I thought must be ill herself, or she would certainly answer Alice. Besides, I could not stand the poor child's distress any longer, and thinking it would be a relief to her to hear anybody speak, I pushed the door open and went in. The window was shut, as poor Alice supposed, but still there was light enough for me to see her very plainly. Her face was as white as the pillow on which it was lying, and her long and thick dark hair fell around it in great confusion. This, and the terror she felt, made her look very wild. Mrs. Scott was kneeling at the foot of the bed, her hands were clasped over her head, and her face was buried in the bedclothes. Alice's eyes were opened very widely, and their look, together with what I had heard, told me the painful truth at once. Alice was blind—perfectly blind,—an affliction that sometimes follows scarlet fever. Till this morning she had been either out of her senses, or so low and stupid from the disease, that she did not notice any thing. But now she was better and stronger, and having heard the doctor bid her mother good morning, when he came in to see her, she was first surprised by the long-continued darkness, and then frightened by her mother's silence and distress. And poor Mrs. Scott! she had long feared for her child's eyes, as Alice would complain of the darkness when the broad daylight was around her, and grieve that she could not see her mother's face when she was weeping over her pillow, or pressing her cold hand on her hot and aching head. But the fever gave Alice many strange fancies, and Mrs. Scott had hoped that this was one of them, till this morning, when the doctor told her that her precious child was blind, quite blind, and must, he feared, be so always.

I have told you that Mrs. Scott had had many sorrows; that she had been sick and poor, had lost three sweet children, and last and worst of all, her husband; yet she had never complained; she had always said, "My Father in heaven loves me, and he sees this sorrow will do me good, or he would not let it happen to me." But she was now weak and worn with grief and fatigue, and when she first heard that her gay, laughing Alice must now be always in darkness—that she could never again see the green earth, or the beautiful flowers, or the bright skies she had so loved to look upon—that, instead of running, jumping, and dancing along, she must now be led by another, or feel her way very slowly and carefully, she was so distressed, so very, very sad, that she had no power to answer Alice, except by low moans.

Much of what I have now told you I heard afterwards; but I saw enough at once to show me what I had best do. Now I want my little readers to mark what I say, and remember whenever any thing happens to another which terrifies or distresses them, they are not to run away from it, but to try to do something to remove it. It no doubt makes you feel very badly to see another suffering, but then you know they feel a great deal worse than you do, and if you will only think more of them than of yourself, you will generally find something you can do to help them.

As soon as I saw how things were with Mrs. Scott and poor Alice, I said to Mrs. Scott in as cheerful and quiet a manner as possible, "How d'ye do, Mrs. Scott? I have called to see how Alice and you are to-day, and I am very glad to find she is better." Then going up to Alice, and taking her hand, I said, "I rejoice, my dear little girl, that you are getting well again; but you have been very ill, and your mother has watched by you so long that she seems quite overcome with sleep. Will you let me take care of you for a little while, that she may rest?"

I spoke very gently, and the child seemed pleased to hear any voice besides her own.

"Thank you, ma'am," said she, "I will be glad to have you sit by me while my mother rests, if you will only open the window and give me some light."

Her mother groaned.

"I will open the window, my dear, and let you feel the breeze, and know that the light is around you, but your eyes are weak yet—so weak that it would hurt them very much—perhaps blind them entirely, if the light fell on them, so you must let me tie a handkerchief lightly over them before I open the window, and promise me you will not take it off while it is open."

In this I only told Alice the truth; for I knew if there was any hope of her recovering her sight it must be by keeping her from using her eyes for some time. She readily promised what I asked, and I then took my pocket-handkerchief, which was fine and thin, and passing it lightly over her eyes, tied it so as to cover them without pressing upon them. I then opened the window, and as she heard me open it and felt the breeze upon her, Alice said, "Oh, thank you, ma'am, it is so pleasant to know that the light is here, and I can almost see it; but indeed you need not be afraid of its hurting me, for I will keep my eyes shut all the time."

The poor mother had by this time risen up from the foot of the bed, and was trying to be calm; but when she heard her little girl speak in such cheerful tones, and especially when she heard her say that she could almost see, knowing as she did that this was only a fancy which would soon pass away, she was quite overcome, and bursting into tears she hurried out of the room. I thought it was best to let her go by herself, for I believed she would ask God to give her strength to bear this great sorrow, and I knew that "like as a father pitieth his children, so the Lord pitieth them that fear him," and that he could send into her heart such thoughts of his love and tender care for her and her dear child, as would comfort her more than any thing I could say to her.

I called Harriet in to see Alice. They were very glad to meet, and chatted cheerfully together, while I moved about the room, putting things in as neat order as I could. Harriet told Alice of every thing she had seen since she had been away, which she thought could amuse her, not forgetting the beautiful wax doll, nor was the gold piece left out, nor what she intended to do with it. Alice quite approved of Harriet's intention to buy books instead of a doll, and Harriet promised that she would lend them to her as soon as her eyes were strong enough to read; for Harriet never supposed that Alice was blind, but thought the handkerchief was bound over her eyes because the light pained them, as she remembered it had done hers when she was ill.

After a while, Mrs. Scott came in, and going straight up to Alice, pressed her lips tenderly over the places in the handkerchief which covered those dear eyes, and asked her gently how she was now. Alice answered cheerfully, "I feel a great deal better, and so glad to hear your voice again. You quite frightened me this morning, dear mother, when you would not speak to me. Have you slept?"

"Not slept, my love, but rested, and I too feel a great deal better."

"I am very glad;" then raising her hand she passed it softly over her mother's face, saying, "I will be satisfied while I can hear you and feel that it is you, though they will not let me look at you."

Mrs. Scott's lip trembled, and the tears came into her eyes again, but they did not run over. She kissed Alice, and then turning to me, thanked me for coming over, and asked how long I had been at home.

"Only since yesterday evening," I replied, "and I have so much yet to attend to before I shall feel quite at home, that now, as you are able to come back to Alice, I must, I think, leave her till to-morrow; but you are too much fatigued to be left alone with her. I know a very good girl, who will not only help you to do your work, but who is so kind that she will take care of Alice, and so cheerful and pleasant, that she will amuse her when you cannot be with her. I will stop at her house on my way home, and send her to you."

The poor woman did not speak directly, but after a little while she said, "I think, ma'am, I ought not to let the girl you speak of come, for I am not so well able to pay for help as I once was."

"I will settle all that with her," said I, "and I will find some way to make your little girl here pay me for it, when she gets well. And now, Alice, you will I know remember your promise to me, and not even ask your mother to take the handkerchief off your eyes till she darkens the room this evening. Perhaps, my dear child, you may have to be in the dark for many days, but we will do every thing we can to help you to bear it patiently. Harriet will spend part of every day with you, and she can read for you till you are able to read for yourself again."

"Oh, thank you, ma'am, I do not think I shall mind the darkness at all, now, if my mother stays with me, and you will let Harriet come very often to see me."

"Well, my child, we will both come to-morrow, and now we will bid you good-by, and I think you had better be still and try to sleep, for while you are so weak, it is not right for you to talk long without resting."

Harriet and I then left the room, followed by Mrs. Scott, who told Alice she was going to the door with us, and would soon be back. She opened the door for us, and when we had gone out, she stepped out too, and taking my hand, thanked me again and again for the comfort I had given her poor blind girl, as she called Alice, when she was too much stunned, she said, to know what to do. I told her I thought it was very important that Alice should not know her misfortune till she was stronger, for fear she should grieve so much as to make her ill again; and that now, till the doctor should think it right to tell her of it, I hoped Alice would suppose that the bandage, or the darkness of the room, kept her from seeing. "But," I asked Mrs. Scott, "does not the doctor think something may be done to restore her sight?"

"Nothing that I can do, ma'am," said the poor woman, beginning to weep, "and that's the worst part, and the hardest to bear;—though I try to remember that my Father in heaven sends that too. The doctor says that in the city there are eye-doctors,—he calls them oculists,—who know a great deal which he does not, and that they might do her some good. But, ah, ma'am! how am I to go to the city with her, even if they would attend her for nothing after we got there, when I owe more money than I fear I can pay for a long while, without working very hard, and living myself, and what's worse, making my poor child live, on bread and water!"

I tried to say something that might comfort this poor woman, but I felt it was a very sad case, and could not say much. She answered to what I did say, "True, ma'am, true, God will strengthen me to bear what only His own hand could bring upon me. May he forgive my complaining heart. He has given me back my child from the very gate of the grave, and now He has sent you to me to be a kind friend in my time of great trouble, and I ought to feel, and I will try to feel, very thankful. But, good-by, ma'am, I hope to see you again to-morrow. I must not stay longer now, for fear my poor child should want me." So saying, she shook hands with Harriet and me, and went into the house.

As soon as she was gone, Harriet, who had stood while we were talking, staring with a half-frightened look, first at Mrs. Scott, and then at me, said in a low tone, "Aunt Kitty, what is the matter with Alice? What does Mrs. Scott mean by calling her a blind girl? Surely, Alice will see again soon—will she not, Aunt Kitty?"

"I fear not, my love, I fear not—certainly not, unless Mrs. Scott can take her where she can have more done for her than anybody here can do, and I know not how she will get money enough to do that."

"Money enough—why, Aunt Kitty, is Mrs. Scott so very poor?"

"You heard her say that she owed money which she could only hope to pay by working very hard, and living very poorly. She has no husband to work for her now, Harriet, and Mr. Scott's and Alice's illness must have made her spend a great deal."

"Oh, Aunt Kitty! I am very sorry for Alice, and if I thought it would help her, I would—"

What Harriet would have said was here interrupted by the coming up of the very girl whom I had wished to get to help Mrs. Scott take care of Alice. I told her of Alice's blindness, how anxious we were that she should not hear of it just now, and that we wished to keep her amused, as well as to have her made comfortable. I added, that I would pay her for what she did, and then asked how soon she could go.

"Right away, right away, ma'am. Poor things, and such kind and clever people as them are too. I only wish, ma'am, I could go to 'em without pay; I am sure if it wasn't for them as depends on me, I'd do it with all my heart."

I told her this was not necessary, though it was very kind, and again bidding her take good care of Alice, I sent her to them while I went home.

Harriet was very silent during the rest of our walk. I did not ask any questions about what she had been going to tell me she would do for Alice, if she thought it would help her; because, whatever she did, I wished should be done from her own free will. When we were again at home, she did not go to play or to read, as usual, but sat down in one place, as if she were tired, and seemed very thoughtful; yet she never named Alice, which surprised me a little, as she was accustomed to talk to me of whatever distressed her. In the afternoon she tried to amuse herself, bringing out first a book and then a toy from her room into the parlor where I sat, until she had gathered together all she had; but there seemed still to be something wanting, for in a short time the books were laid aside, the toys pushed away, and Harriet, apparently forgetting them, again sat as she had done in the morning, quiet and thoughtful. After it began to grow dark, she carried her books and toys back to her room, and came and seated herself at my feet. As the weather was warm, we had no lights in the parlor, and the hall light just let us see where objects stood, but was not bright enough to show us very plainly what they were.

"Aunt Kitty," said Harriet, "can Alice see no more plainly than we do now, when there is no light in the room?"

"Not so plainly, my love, for we can see a little. She can see no more than you can of a dark night, when you wake up at midnight, with your windows shut and your curtains down."

She was silent a few minutes, and then said, "It must be a dreadful thing, Aunt Kitty, to be blind."

"Yes, my dear Harriet," said I, "it must be a dreadful thing—and I fear neither you nor I have been thankful enough to God for saving you from such an affliction, when you got well of the same disease which has made Alice blind. When you pray for your little friend to-night, my love, do not forget how much reason you have to be thankful that you can see."

Harriet did not say any thing more, but she laid her head on my lap, and I heard her sob once or twice.

It was now getting late, and kissing her, I told her it was time for her to go to bed, and that I would only sit up long enough after her to write a letter to a bookseller to whom I intended sending for the books. Harriet was now standing by me in the hall, where I had gone to light her candle, and when I mentioned the books, she looked as if she was about to speak, but stopped herself. After I had ended, she said, "Aunt Kitty,"—then stopped again.

"What, my love?" said I.

"Nothing, ma'am—good-night," and taking her candle she went to her room.

I wrote my letter and then went to mine, into which, you must remember, I have told you hers opened. I turned my latch very softly, for fear of waking Harriet if she was asleep; but as soon as I entered, she called out, "I'm not asleep, Aunt Kitty; please come here, and let me speak to you."

I went to her directly, asking what was the matter.

"I have been waiting and listening a long time for you, Aunt Kitty, for there is something I wanted to say to you, and I could not go to sleep till I had said it. I hope you did not write the letter about the books, for I do not want them now, Aunt Kitty. I want you, if you please, to give the money to poor Mrs. Scott, that it may help her to go to the city and get something done for Alice's eyes."

"My dear Harriet, this money is yours, and you have a right to do what you will with it, but I hope you have thought well of what you are going to do now. It will not do afterwards to be sorry you did not buy the books you want, which you will not be likely to get in any other way."

"Oh no, Aunt Kitty! I do not want them now; at least, I do not want them half so much as I want Alice to see again, and I have thought very much about it,—indeed I have.

"When I first heard Mrs. Scott and you talking this morning, and you said Alice was blind, and Mrs. Scott was too poor to take her to the good doctors, who might do something for her, I remembered my gold piece, and thought I would give it to her to help her, and I was just going to tell you so when Betty Maclaurin came up, and you stopped to speak to her about going to Mrs. Scott's, and then I could not, you know."

"Well, but you could have told me after she had gone, if you still wished it."

"Yes, I know I could, but while you were talking to her, I remembered my books, and I called all their names over, and thought how Alice would like to hear me read them, till I wanted them more than ever; and then I thought it would be a great deal kinder to get them and read some of them every day to Alice, than to give Mrs. Scott my money, which, though I think it so much, would hardly help her at all. Besides, Aunt Kitty, I knew you and my uncle and my grandpapa would give Mrs. Scott a great deal more money than my two dollars and a half, if it would help Alice."

"And what made my little girl change her mind—what made her think this would not be best?"

"I do not know, Aunt Kitty; I only know I could not think of any thing but Alice all day, though I tried every way to forget her, and every thing I looked at made me feel bad, because Alice could not see it too."

"Did my little Harriet never think, during all this time, of that verse she learned from her Bible the other day, which I told her would always teach her what she ought to do for others, 'As ye would that men should do to you, do ye also to them likewise?'"

"Oh yes! Aunt Kitty, I thought of that this evening, when you were telling me what a dreadful thing it is to be blind, and that I might have been blind, as well as Alice, and I said to myself, if I had been blind, I would have thought it very unkind in Alice not to do all she could to help me to see again, and then I felt as if I was so cruel that I could not help crying; and when you said you were going to write for the books, I wanted to beg you not to do it, but somehow I could not—so I only bid you good-night, and came to bed."

"And what happened then to make you feel differently? Tell me all you felt and thought, dear child, and then I shall know whether you are doing right now."

"Why you see, Aunt Kitty, after I was undressed I knelt down to say my prayers, and after I had thanked God as you told me to do, for my own eyesight, I tried to pray that He would give Alice back hers; but, though I said the words over and over again, I could not feel as if I was praying them, for I kept thinking, Aunt Kitty, how deceitful God would think me, to pretend to care so much for Alice's eyes, when I really cared so much more about my books; and then I remembered the little prayer you taught me once, 'Oh God! I pray thee show me what is right to do, and make me love to do it.' As soon as I said 'what is right to do,' it came into my head that it was right for me to do all I could for Alice, if everybody else did ever so much for her; and now, Aunt Kitty, I wish I had a great deal more money, that I might give it all to her—and though I am just as sorry for Alice, I do not feel half so bad about her; for if we are willing to do all we can for her, God, who loves her a great deal more than any of us, will certainly give her back her eyesight. Don't you think he will, Aunt Kitty?"

"God does love her a great deal more than we do, my dear; but He is a great deal wiser than we are, and He may see that it is best for Alice that she should continue blind, though it seems so terrible to us. You must remember, therefore, that Alice may go to the city and come back no better. Should you not feel sorry then that you had given up your books without doing her any good?"

Harriet thought for a moment, and then said, "No, Aunt Kitty, for I should have done what was right, and I could never feel sorry for that, you know."

I kissed the sweet child, and said, "Dear Harriet, always remember what you now say. Do right, my child, and you will be happy, let what will happen,—far happier than if by doing wrong you could get every thing in the world you wished for. And now I may tell you that you could have made no use of your money which I would have thought half so good, or which would have given me half so much pleasure."

"I am very glad, Aunt Kitty; I was afraid at first that you did not like me to give it away."

"Why, Harriet? What made you feel afraid of this?"

"Because you did not talk at first as you do when you are very much pleased."

"I had a reason, my dear, for not seeming very much pleased until I had heard why you wished to give your money to Alice,—a very good reason, I think, which it would take me too long to explain to you to-night, for it is very late already for such a little girl to be sitting up. Go to bed now, and to-morrow morning I will tell you all about it." Harriet went to bed, and soon forgot her good intentions and my good reasons in a sound sleep.

I dare say my little readers thought just as Harriet did, that I did not seem at first as much pleased as I ought to have been with her kind and generous feelings to her friend; but if they will read the conversation I had with her the next morning, I think they will understand why this was.

I did not wake Harriet as early as usual the next morning, because she had been up so late at night. As soon, however, as she was well awake, she remembered our conversation, and said, "Now, Aunt Kitty, you will tell me what you promised?"

"Not now, my love, for it is late, and breakfast will soon be ready; but after breakfast we will go to Mrs. Scott's, and on our way there, I will answer all your questions."

As soon as we had set out for Mrs. Scott's, Harriet again reminded me of my promise.

"Well, my love," said I, "you wish to know why I did not tell you at once how much pleased I was with your intention to help Alice. It was because I wanted first to hear your reasons for doing it, and so to know whether you were acting from an impulse or a principle."

Now my little readers are doubtless very much puzzled by this "acting from an impulse or a principle," and so was Harriet, too. She looked up in my face with a very thoughtful air for a minute, then shook her head, and said, "Aunt Kitty, I do not understand you at all, I do not even know what impulse means, or principle either."

"I did not expect you would, my love; but I hope to be able to explain them to you, if you will listen very carefully to what I am going to say. Persons are said to act from impulse, when they are led to do a thing from feeling, without pausing to ask whether the feeling be right or wrong. Thus, if you were eating a piece of cake, and a very poor child should come up to you, and saying she was hungry, ask you for it, and you should give it to her without a moment's thought, from a feeling of pity for her, this would be acting from impulse."

"And would it not be right, Aunt Kitty, to give the poor little child my cake?"

"Very right, my love, and if you had asked yourself what it was right to do, you would have given it, perhaps, just as quickly, for you know your Bible tells you, 'Be pitiful'—'Feed the hungry.' Your feeling of pity, then, was a right feeling, and your readiness to give your cake was what we call a good impulse; but you know there are some very wrong feelings, such as anger, which sometimes makes little girls give hard words, and even hard blows, to their brothers and sisters, or playmates, who will not do as they wish. This again is acting from impulse, though it is a bad impulse. So you see, my dear Harriet, as the best-natured people in the world sometimes have very wrong feelings, if they are accustomed to do just what their feelings tell them to do, that is, to act from impulse, you can never be sure whether their actions will be good or bad."

"But, Aunt Kitty, when I find out my feeling is a right feeling, I may do just what it tells me to do?"

"No, my love; even when a feeling is a right feeling, it will not be well to do always just what it tells you, for a right feeling may lead to a very wrong action. You think this strange, but I will tell you a story which will show you that it sometimes is so. A little girl was once sent by a lady who was making a visit to her mother, to a thread and needle store, to buy a spool of cotton for her. The lady had given her a shilling, which she held carefully between her finger and thumb, for fear of losing it. Another girl who was passing saw the shilling, and wanted it very much. Being a very wicked child, she began to cry, or at least, to seem to cry, saying that she had just lost the only shilling her mother had, as she was going to the baker's to buy a loaf of bread with it; that they had nothing to eat at home, and she was afraid her mother would beat her when she went back and told her what she had done. The little girl who had the shilling felt very sorry for her, and offered to help her look for the money. They did look for it a long time, the wicked child crying piteously all the while, and saying that her mother would kill her, till the other little girl felt so grieved, that she gave her the shilling which she had in her hand. Now, as she believed the wicked child's story, the sorrow she felt for her was very right, and yet you see it led her to do a very wrong action—to give away what did not belong to her. Nor did the wrong-doing stop here; when she went home, her mamma, to whom she intended to tell all about it, was gone out, and the lady asking for her cotton, she was afraid to tell her what she had done with the money, and so she committed a greater fault by saying what was not true,—she told her she had lost the shilling. The lady thought her very careless, and thus she got blame which she did not deserve, and as she was really a good little girl in general, she was quite miserable for several days about the story she had told, until she summoned courage to let her mamma know the whole truth. Here you see, Harriet, a very kind feeling made this little girl act very badly; but if she had been accustomed, when a feeling inclined her to do any thing, to ask herself if it would be right, before she did it, that is, to act from principle instead of impulse, she would have said to the wicked child, 'I am very sorry for you, and if this shilling was mine, I would give it to you, but it is not. You must wait till I have bought the spool of cotton I was sent for, and then, if you will go home with me, I will ask my mamma for another shilling for you.'"

"Now, Aunt Kitty, I think I understand you; if I had given my money to Alice yesterday morning, when I first heard she was blind, and before I had thought what was right for me to do, I would have acted from impulse, would I not?"

"Yes, my love, and though it would have been a good impulse, and you would even then have had more pleasure than in spending it in any thing that was only for yourself, yet I am afraid your pleasure would not have lasted long. You would soon have begun to think of your books, and if other people offered to help Alice, you would have thought you had been very foolish to give them up."

"But I shall not think so now, Aunt Kitty—I shall always think it was right to give them up to do Alice good."

"That is true, Harriet, and the happiness you feel in doing what is right, you will always feel; for that which makes you happy will not change; what is right to-day, will be right to-morrow, and the next day, and the next."

We walked on a little way in silence, and then Harriet said, looking up at me with a smiling, pleasant face, "Then, Aunt Kitty, after all, it was not very wrong for me not to give my money to Alice at once?"

"It was not wrong at all, my dear, for you not to give it till you had asked yourself whether it was right to do so; but you might have asked this question as soon as you felt sorry for Alice, and then you would have done in the morning what you waited till night to do, and have felt just as happy on account of doing it. I would be very sorry to have my little girl suppose that when she sees anybody in distress, she must wait a great while to think the matter over, before she does any thing for them. There is only one question you need ask, before you try to help them, and that is—What is it right for me to do? This, you can ask immediately, and you need not wait long for an answer—conscience will tell you very honestly and very quickly what is right."

Now perhaps some of my little readers may not know as well as Harriet did, what I mean by conscience, so I will tell them. I mean something within you, which makes you know whether you have been good or bad children, before anybody else says any thing about it.

"But, Aunt Kitty," said Harriet, "how is my conscience always to know what is right or wrong?"

"There are many ways, Harriet, in which conscience may learn something about it; but the easiest and simplest way of all is by reading your Bible, and trying to understand and remember what that tells you to do or not to do. When conscience is thus taught, if it tells you that what a feeling would lead you to do, is right, you must do it at once, without thinking any farther about it; and if conscience tells you a feeling is wrong, you must try to get rid of it at once."

"Get rid of it, Aunt Kitty!" said Harriet, with a wondering look, "how can I get rid of a feeling?"

"The best way, my dear Harriet, is by refusing to do any thing it would have you. Thus, if you are angry with any one, and the feeling of anger would have you say some of those hard words to them which I spoke of just now, refuse to say them, or if possible even to think them over in your own mind, and you will very soon get rid of your anger."

Harriet did not say any thing for some minutes. When she next spoke, it was in a very low and somewhat sad tone.

"Aunt Kitty, I am afraid I cannot do all you tell me, for I have tried sometimes, when I have been angry, not to say any thing, and I could not help talking."

"I know, my dear, that it is often very difficult, but the harder it is, the happier will you feel if you can do it. But, my dear Harriet, you planted some seeds in your garden this morning, and watered them, yet you know they could not grow any more than a pebble could, if God did not put life into them, and make them take in the water and the warmth which will nourish them and cause them to swell out and put forth; and so, after all the instructions which I can give you, or even which you can get from your Bible, it is only God who can put into your heart such a strong desire to do right, that you will receive these instructions, as the little seeds receive the water and warmth, and put forth right feelings and right actions, as they put forth their green leaves. This you must ask Him to do. But here we are in sight of Mrs. Scott's, slowly as we have walked, and you will not be sorry, I suppose, to have such a very grave talk stopped."

"I am not glad to have you stop talking, Aunt Kitty, but I will be very glad to see Alice, for I have brought a book to read for her, that I know she wants to hear very much."

I was pleased to see, as I approached, that the house looked more cheerful. The parlor windows were open, and as we went up the steps and passed through the little porch, I saw that they had been nicely swept. The door was latched, and on my knocking at it Mrs. Scott herself opened it for us. She seemed very glad to see us, and said Alice felt stronger and better, and that she had been looking, or rather listening for us all the morning. We went directly to her room. There too every thing seemed in order, and looked pleasantly. The sash was raised, and the soft warm breeze brought to us the sweet smell of the clover, a field of which was in bloom quite near the house. Alice was sitting in bed, propped up with pillows, and though still very pale, looked much more like herself than she had done the day before. The handkerchief was over her eyes, as I had placed it, and I told her I was much pleased to see she had not forgotten her promise. She smiled and answered me cheerfully, "Indeed, ma'am, I have been very careful to keep it. I would not ask to take off the handkerchief till my mother shut the window last night, and told me it was quite dark, and I tied it on myself as soon as I woke this morning, though that was long before daylight. But now," she added, speaking very fast, as if she was afraid that something would call off my attention before I had heard all she wished to say, "may not I have it off just for one single minute? I do want to see the clover, for I know it is in bloom by the smell."

"And I hope, my dear little girl, you will be satisfied to know it only by the smell to-day, for it would be very imprudent to expose your eyes to the light so soon. Harriet has come to spend the morning with you, and you must see with her eyes. She will read for you, and when you grow weary of listening, she will tell you how any thing looks which you want very much to see."

"Oh! I shall like that, for then, Harriet, I can see all that you saw when you were away, your grandfather's house, and all the places that you passed on the road, for you know you can tell me how they looked, and then I shall see them through your eyes. Will not that be pleasant!"

Having thus satisfied Alice, I proposed to Mrs. Scott that we should leave the children, as I thought Harriet would read better, and Alice and she would talk more freely, if we were not there to listen to them. I had another reason too, as my little readers will presently see. I wanted to speak to Mrs. Scott about Alice, to learn whether the doctor had seen her after I went away the day before, and whether he still thought that something might be done in the city for her eyes. Mrs. Scott told me he had been there the evening before, when poor Alice thought the room quite dark, and wondered her mother did not bring in a light for the doctor, though a lamp was burning brightly on the table near her. The doctor passed this lamp before her eyes, holding it quite close to them, but she never winked. Poor Mrs. Scott told me this with her eyes full of tears, which streamed down her cheeks as she added, that the doctor did not speak a word, but that the mournful shake of his head as he set down the lamp said as plainly as any words could do, that he thought her child's a very bad case. The doctor's house was quite near to Mrs. Scott's, and while she was speaking, we saw him coming home from a visit he had been making. He was on horseback, and seeing me at the open window, he stopped his horse at the gate of the court-yard to say that he was glad to see me at home again, and to ask how his little friend Harriet was, for Harriet having been, as I told you before, a very good child in her sickness, she and her doctor were very close friends.

Leaving Mrs. Scott in the parlor, I went to the gate of the court-yard, and told the doctor I wanted to put some questions to him about Alice, which I would rather Mrs. Scott should not hear. He very kindly got off his horse and came quite near me. I then told him that I wished to know from him whether there was the least hope that any thing could be done in the city to restore Alice's sight. Looking very grave, he answered, that he was afraid not, but as physicians who knew more about the eyes than he did might think differently, if Mrs. Scott were a little richer, or if he were rich enough to help her, he would still advise her to go. I told the doctor that I had some friends who I thought would give Mrs. Scott as much money as would take her to B. and pay her board as long as it would be necessary for Alice to stay there, but that I was afraid the attendance of these oculists would cost a great deal more perhaps than they could give.

"Not if she go to B.," said the doctor quickly. "That, you know, is the place from which I came, and I know many physicians there. To some of these I would give Mrs. Scott letters, and through them, the pious and excellent Dr. W., the best oculist there, might be made acquainted with the case of our little Alice. He would, I am sure, do all he could for her without any charge."

I asked the doctor if he knew any thing of the Institution for the blind in B.

"Yes, ma'am," he replied. "It is a most noble institution, and its manager, Dr. H., the most benevolent of men. To him I can give Mrs. Scott a letter, and this poor child will, I doubt not, have all the aid which he can give her."

Perhaps my little readers never heard of these institutions for the blind, and I will therefore tell them, that there, those who are perfectly blind are taught to read, write, sew, and do many fancy works, which it would seem to us quite impossible to do without sight. Now you will see at once, if Alice should continue blind, what a great advantage it would be to her to be taught such things. To sit always in the dark, and be able to do nothing, might make even a merry little girl sad, while even blindness may be borne cheerfully, when the blind can be employed. Besides, Alice, if able to do some of the works I have named, might earn money by them, perhaps enough to support herself and her mother too; and I need not tell you what a comfort that would be to a good, affectionate child.

Before the doctor left me, I asked him how soon it would be prudent for Alice to travel; and he said, if she continued to get better, she might set out on the following Monday, as she would go almost all the way in a steamboat, which would not fatigue her so much as travelling by land. He added, if by Saturday evening I were able to get as much money for Mrs. Scott as would be necessary, he would have the letters he had promised to write ready for her, and we would then meet at her house on Sunday, and tell the poor little girl of her blindness, as kindly and gently as we could, if she should not discover it before that time.

When I went back to the house, finding Mrs. Scott still in the parlor, I told her of what the doctor and I had been speaking, and asked her whether, if she should go to B. and find that nothing could be done by the physicians there for her child's eyes, she would be willing to have her placed for a year or two at the Institution for the Blind.

"Willing, my dear ma'am!" said the good woman, "I shall be thankful indeed to the kind people who give their money to support such a good school, and still more to God, who put it in their hearts to do so. I know it will be very hard to part from my poor little girl, even for an hour, now she's so helpless, but I need not come far away from her, for I dare say I can get some kind of work in B. by which I can make enough to live upon, and if she can't come home to me at night, they will, maybe, let me go to see her every day; don't you think they will, ma'am?"

"I do not doubt it," I replied; "but now I will see Alice, and bid her good-by, for I must hasten home to write a letter that I wish to send away this afternoon."

I entered Alice's room as I spoke, and found her still listening to the book which Harriet had not more than half finished reading, as she had stopped to talk over with Alice whatever seemed to her most pleasant in it. Alice seemed so unwilling to part with Harriet, that I gave her permission to stay till evening, when I promised to send for her, adding that I would call again myself the next morning.

"And then, ma'am," said Alice, "do you not think—" she stopped, and seemed confused.

"Do I not think what, Alice—speak, my dear child,—what would you ask?"

"I am afraid you will think me very teasing, ma'am; but I am so tired of the dark. Do you not think I can take off the handkerchief by that time?"

It made me very sad to hear her speak of being tired of the dark—so sad that I could not answer her directly. Thinking from my silence that I was displeased with her, she burst into tears and said, "I was afraid you would be angry with me."

"Indeed, my dear child," said I, kissing her and wiping the tears from her face, "I am not angry, nor am I at all surprised that you should be tired of this unpleasant bandage, but you will not now have to bear it long. This is Thursday—on Sunday the doctor says he will take it off altogether. You will try, I hope, for the next two days to bear it as cheerfully, and think of it as little as possible."

"Oh yes, ma'am! indeed I will,—I will not say another word about it."

"And now, my dear little girl, I would have you remember in all your troubles, little and great, that He who sends them is God, your kind and tender heavenly Father. Do you think, Alice, that your mother would willingly make you suffer pain?"

"No, ma'am, I am sure she would not."

"And yet she has given you, since you were sick, very bad-tasted and sickening medicine, and even put a blister on you, which must have given you great pain. Why was this?"

"To save me from being more ill, and having greater pain, and to make me well," said Alice, in a very low voice.

"True, my dear child; and God, who tells us in the Bible that he loves us better than even mothers love their children, never, we may be sure, suffers any pain or trouble to come upon us which is not to save us from greater pain, to make us better. Remember this, and it will help you to bear a great many things easily, which would otherwise seem very hard and fret you very much. Harriet, can you not repeat for Alice those lines you learned the other day, called a conversation between a mother and her sick child?"

As Alice looked very grave, I pressed her little hand in mine, and without speaking went out of the room, as Harriet began to recite the lines which I will set down here, as I think my little readers would like to see them.

The letter which I had told Mrs. Scott I wished to send off that afternoon was to Harriet's grandfather, to whom I intended writing about Alice; for he was a very kind, good man, and was always glad to be told of those who wanted, when he had any thing to give. He had promised to make us a visit soon, but I did not know that it would be so soon as this week. However, about an hour after I had gone home, when I had written, and just as I was folding my letter, a carriage drove to the door, and he alighted from it. As I knew he would stay with us two or three days I was in no hurry to speak of Alice, preferring to wait till Harriet came home in the evening, and see whether she would think of interesting her grandfather in her little friend. He had been with me about two hours when I sent for her, and he told the servant who went that she need not mention his coming, for he thought it would be very pleasant to see Harriet's first joy at meeting him, when she so little expected to see him.

As Harriet came back with the servant, we could now and then catch a glimpse of her white dress through an opening of the wood, and while she was still too far off to distinguish the faces of persons sitting in the parlor, her grandfather moved away from the window, so that she might not see him till she was quite in the parlor. She came up the steps and through the porch and to the parlor door very quietly and rather slowly, as if she was almost sorry to come in; but the moment she saw her grandfather, she threw down the flowers she had been picking, and springing towards him, was in his lap before he could even rise from his chair to meet her, crying out, "Oh grandpapa! I am so glad to see you—so very, very glad—more glad than I ever was in my life before."

"Why, how is that?" said he, smiling and kissing her, "I thought my little pet was always as glad to see old grandpapa as she could possibly be."

"So I thought, too, but now I am more glad than ever, for I want some more money very, very much; and I know you will give me some."

Mr. Armand, for that was his name, looked all at once very grave, and said, "So—it is to get money you are glad—not to see me!"

I saw he was not quite well pleased, for he turned aside his face as Harriet would have kissed him, and seemed about to put her out of his lap. But Harriet was too eager to notice all this; she kept her seat, and putting her arm around his neck, spoke very fast, "Oh yes, grandpapa! you know I am always glad to see you; but now I do want some money for poor Alice."

"For poor Alice," said Mr. Armand, "that alters the case," and drawing her close to him again, and looking much better satisfied with her, he added, "And who is Alice?—and what makes her poor?"

"Alice! Why don't you remember Alice Scott, that I talked so much about when I was at your house? Don't you remember I told you I loved to play with her better than with any of the girls, because she was so good-natured, and never was tired?"

"Ah! now I think I do remember something of her. And is it because she is so pleasant a playfellow, that you wish me to give you some money for her?"

"Oh no, grandpapa—that would be funny," said Harriet, laughing; but in a minute she was looking very serious again, and went on speaking more slowly—"Poor Alice's father is dead—he died while we were away—and her mother is very poor, and Alice has been ill, and oh, grandpapa! she's blind, quite blind, and Dr. Franks says he cannot do her any good, but that there are some doctors, eye-doctors, oculists—is it not, Aunt Kitty?—in B., who might do something for her, and poor Mrs. Scott has not any money to carry her there. Now, grandpapa, will you not give me some for her?"

"Have you given her some yourself, Harriet?"

"Yes, grandpapa, I have given her all I had, but though it was a great deal for me it is not near enough for her, you know."

Mr. Armand was silent a minute, and then said, "I am very sorry, my dear child, to disappoint you, and still more sorry not to help your little friend, in whom I feel much interest; but what can I do? I have just spent a great deal of money on a present for you, and I really have now none to give."

"Spent a great deal of money on a present for me!" repeated Harriet, with a wondering face.

"Yes, my dear. I think eighty dollars a great deal of money to spend for a little girl, and I have just given all that for a present for you. Do you remember the little pony you saw at Mr. Lewis's house, and do you remember thinking Eliza Lewis must be a very happy little girl, because she had such a large wax doll to play with in the house, and such a little pony to ride when she went out?"

"Oh, grandpapa! I know that was very foolish in me, but I remember it all—the beautiful pony and all."

"Well, my dear, that beautiful pony is now yours, and will be here this evening with a new saddle and bridle, for all of which I gave, as I have just told you, eighty dollars."

"Oh, Aunt Kitty!" cried Harriet, her eyes bright with joy, "only hear, that beautiful little pony!—and he is so gentle I may ride him all by myself—may I not, grandpapa?"

"Yes, I bought him on that account, for your aunt told me that she would like to have you ride, but feared to put you on one of her horses. This pony," he said, turning to me, "is as gentle as a lamb, and so well broken and obedient, that you scarcely need a bridle for him. I made them bring him very slowly, and rest him some hours on the road, that he might not be at all tired when he got here, for I thought Harriet would want a ride to-morrow morning."

"Yes, yes, dear grandpapa, that will be so pleasant, and I can ride him to Mrs. Scott's, and let Alice see—oh grandpapa!" suddenly stopping herself and looking very sad, "she cannot see him. I had forgotten all about it—and now you have not any money for her, what will she do? Poor Alice!"

"I am very sorry for her," said Mr. Armand, "for it must be a sad thing to be blind. Had I heard about her this morning, I do not know that you would have got your pony, for a gentleman, at whose house I stopped, wanted him so much that he offered to buy him from me at any price. However, he is now yours, and I have no right to him or to the money he would bring. I hope you will enjoy riding him very much, and think of dear grandpapa whenever you ride."

He kissed her again and put her down from his lap. Harriet stood beside him, and smiled a little at first, but not so joyfully as she had done when she first heard of pony. After a while her countenance grew more and more serious. Several minutes had passed, and her grandfather and I were talking of something else, when Harriet said to him, "Grandpapa, would that gentleman who wanted pony, give you the whole eighty dollars back again?"

"Yes, my love."

"And would you give it all to Alice, grandpapa?"

"I should have no right to give any of it, Harriet. The pony is now yours, and should you choose me to sell him, the money would be yours, and I should honestly pay every cent of it to you, and you could give it to Alice if you liked."

Harriet was again silent for a minute or two, and seemed very thoughtful; then, raising her head and putting her hand into her grandfather's, she said, "Grandpapa, please take pony back and send me the money."

Her grandfather laid his hand affectionately on her head, and said, "Certainly, my child, if you wish it, when I am going,—that will give you two nights and a day to think of it. You have not seen pony's new saddle and bridle yet, and you may change your mind."

"Oh, no, grandpapa, I shall not change my mind, for I am sure it is right to do without pony myself, and let Alice have the money."

She looked at me as she said this, and I replied, "I am pleased that you have not forgotten what we talked of this morning."

Pony came, and beautiful he was, and very pretty was the new saddle and bridle; and Harriet rode him to Mrs. Scott's, in the morning, and home again, and very much did she enjoy her ride; yet she did not change her mind, for when her grandfather asked, on the morning he left us, "Well, Harriet, does pony go with me, or stay with you?" she answered directly, "Go with you, grandpapa." And when he was brought to the door, all saddled and bridled for his journey, she went up to him, and stroking his sleek sides, said, smilingly, "Good-by, my pretty pony—good-by; I could love you very much, but not so much as I love Alice."

So pony went on Saturday morning; and on Saturday evening (for the gentleman who bought him only lived about ten miles from us) came the eighty dollars, enclosed in a very affectionate note to Harriet, from her grandfather. She seemed never tired of reading the note, or of admiring the pretty new bills that were in it. When she gave me these bills for Mrs. Scott, she begged me not to say any thing about her in giving them. As I always liked to know my little girl's reasons for what she did, I asked, "And why, my dear?"

She looked confused, hesitated a good deal, and said, "Aunt Kitty, do you remember when that little baby's mother died last summer, and I begged you to let me make its clothes, and—and—oh, you remember, Aunt Kitty."

"Yes, Harriet, I remember that you sewed very industriously at first, and afterwards, getting tired of your work, the poor little baby wanted clothes sadly."

"But, Aunt Kitty, that is not all. Do you not remember what you told me was the reason I felt tired so soon?"

"I think I do; was it not that you had done it from a desire for praise, and that as soon as people were tired of praising you, you were tired of working? But I do not see why you speak of that now; when you have given the money to Alice, you cannot take it back, so you need not be afraid of changing."

"No, Aunt Kitty, not of changing—at least I could not take it back—but—but you know—" she stopped, and hung her head.

"If you did it for praise, you think you might get sorry for having done it, and wish you could take it back, when people were done praising you."

"Yes, Aunt Kitty, that is it—and if people knew it, I could not be quite sure that I was not doing it to be praised, you know. I am very happy, now that dear Alice will have it, and I do not think I can ever want to take it back, or ever be sorry for giving it to her; but you told me the other day, that doing right was the only thing I could be certain of always being glad of; so I would rather, if you please, you would not say any thing about me, and then I shall know that I have done it only because it is right, and that it will always make me just as happy as I am now."

I was too much pleased with Harriet's reasons, to refuse her request; so no one but her grandfather, her grandmother, and myself, ever knew what she had done for Alice, till now that I have told it to you, which I would not have done, did I not feel sure that after what I have said of her wishes, you would not, if you should ever meet her, speak to her on the subject.

I was able to add twenty dollars to Harriet's gift, and so there were one hundred dollars for Mrs. Scott to begin her journey with. It would cost her but little to go to B., and this would enable her to stay there quite long enough to learn what could be done for Alice. Harriet thought she would rather give her gold piece to her friend herself, to spend as she liked.

On Sunday afternoon the doctor and I met, as we had agreed to do, at Mrs. Scott's. We saw her first in the parlor. I gave her the money, and the doctor had his letters ready for her, and explained very carefully to her what he wished her to do. He had already sent by the mail a letter to his sister, who lived in B., telling her of Mrs. Scott's coming, and requesting her to look out for some quiet place, where she might be cheaply boarded, as near as possible to the Institution for the Blind, for there he thought Alice would have to go. He now gave Mrs. Scott, on a card, his sister's name, and the name of the place where she lived, telling her to go there when she arrived in B., and if his sister had not found a place for her, he was sure she would keep her at her own house till she did. Having arranged all these things with Mrs. Scott, we went into Alice's room.

Alice was sitting up, and was so anxious for our coming, and so happy at the thought of seeing once more, that she had quite a rosy color in her cheeks. The doctor looked at her very sadly, and said "How d'ye do" to her, with a very soft and kind voice. She seemed hardly to hear him—but said very quickly, with a pleasant smile, "Now, doctor, must I take off the handkerchief?" and raised her hand to take out the pin which fastened it.

"Not yet, my dear," said the doctor, taking hold of her hand, "I wish to say something to you first. I fear, Alice, that you are going to be very much disappointed. You have no idea how very bad your eyes are. They give you no pain, and therefore you think there cannot be much the matter with them; but, my dear child, those are not the worst diseases of the eye which give the most pain. You think that only this handkerchief keeps you from seeing, but I am afraid that when I take it off you will still see very dimly—very dimly indeed—nay, Alice, I may as well tell you all,—I fear, that at present, at least, and perhaps for many days to come, you will not see at all."

As Dr. Franks spoke, the smile had gone from Alice's lip, and the color from her cheek, so that when he was done, instead of the bright, happy face she had when we came in, she was looking very pale and very sad. She seemed to have forgotten the handkerchief, her hands hung down in her lap, and she did not speak a word. Both the doctor and I were much grieved for her, and Mrs. Scott's tears fell upon her head as she stood leaning over the back of her chair. Alice did not weep—indeed, she seemed quite stunned.

After a while, the doctor said, "Alice, this handkerchief is of no use to you, and it must be very warm and unpleasant—shall I take it off?"

Her lips moved, and she tried to say, "Yes, sir," but we could scarcely hear her.

It was taken off. Alice kept her eyes shut for a little time, and then opened them suddenly, and turning them first towards the window, looked slowly around the room, then shut them again, without saying a word. She soon opened them, and looking towards the doctor, said, in a low, faltering voice, "Doctor, is it night?"

"No, my child, it is not more than four o'clock in the afternoon."

She was silent a minute, then said, "Is it cloudy?"

"No, Alice, the sun is shining brightly."

She was again still for a little while—the tears began to come into her eyes, and her lip quivered very much, as speaking again, she said, "Are the windows shut?"

The doctor again answered her, "No, they are open, and the sashes raised."

Poor Alice covered her eyes with her hands for a second, then stretching out her arms, and turning her head around as if looking for some one, she cried mournfully, "Mother, mother, where are you?"

"Here, my own precious child," said Mrs. Scott, as coming round to the side of the chair, she put her arms around her, and drew her head down upon her bosom. Alice did not cry aloud, but her tears came fast, and her sobs were so deep, that it seemed as though her heart would break with this great sorrow. The doctor said, softly, to Mrs. Scott, "Persuade her to go to bed, as soon as you can," and then both he and I went out, for we knew her mother would be her best comforter.

Mrs. Scott was to leave her home at ten o'clock the next morning, and at nine Harriet went over to say some parting words to Alice, and I to receive some last directions from Mrs. Scott about taking care of the house and furniture for her. I could see that Harriet was almost afraid to meet Alice, thinking she must be very miserable now that her blindness was known to her. But though she looked sadly, and turned away with tears in her eyes when we first spoke to her, she soon began to talk with Harriet about her journey. She seemed to hope to receive great good from the physicians in B., and I was glad to find that her mother had not tried to discourage this hope; for, I said to myself, if nothing can be done for her, she will find it out soon enough, and every day that passes will help to prepare her better for it. She seemed much gratified by Harriet's present of the gold piece, and when she bade me good-by, said, "I thank you, ma'am, very much, for all your goodness to me."

Mrs. Scott, too, begged me to tell the friends who had helped her how very grateful she was to them, and how earnestly she would pray to God to reward them for all their goodness to her and her fatherless girl. I knew by the color that came into Harriet's face, and the tears that sprang into her eyes, as the good woman spoke, that she had heard her; and I was glad of it, for I thought that she deserved to be made as happy as I felt certain such thankfulness would make her, for her desire to do right, and her readiness to give up her own pleasures for her friend's good.

After our friends were gone, I spent some time in giving directions to Betty about the cleaning and putting away things, so that she might leave the house in order; and Harriet kept herself from being very sad by working in Alice's garden, weeding the beds and tying up the flowers, which, as I said before, had been left during her illness to trail upon the ground.

Mrs. Scott had promised to write to me as soon as the physicians had decided whether they could or could not be of any service to Alice; and you may be sure we looked very anxiously for her letter. It came about two weeks after she had left us, and I will copy it for you here, as I am sure you will like to see it.

B——, July 2, 18—.

My Dear Madam,—

You were so kind as to ask me to let you know what the doctors here might think of my little girl's case, and I have only been waiting for them to make up their minds about it, before I wrote to you. Yesterday they told me, what I felt long ago, that they could not help her. This is a great trial, ma'am, but, blessed be God, with great trials He sends great mercies. I don't know, ma'am, how to tell you the thankfulness that is in my heart, first to Him, and then to you and Dr. Franks, and all the other kind friends that have helped me through this affliction. It is a comfort to me to feel that every thing has been done for my poor child that could be done; indeed, I fear it would have broken my heart to think that something might be done to make her see again, and to feel that I could never get money enough to pay for that something, if I worked till I was dead. Oh! I thank God that I have not got that to bear.

But I am forgetting all this time to tell you how kind everybody here has been to me. Miss Franks is the doctor's own sister, I am sure, for she is just such another kind and generous person. The steamboat did not get here till it began to grow quite dark, and I was very much troubled, thinking how I should find my way up through the crowd, and fearing lest my little trunk should get lost, which had all our clothes in it, or that if I went to see about that, Alice would get hurt, when a man came on board and asked for me. He said Miss Franks had sent him with a carriage to bring us to her house. It was a hired carriage, as I found afterwards, for I thought at first it was her own; but she would not let me pay any thing for it. Was not this kind? She had us to stay at her house the first night, and the next morning took us again in a carriage to the place where she had got board for us. This was in a very neat house, and with a clever, good woman. She is an elderly, single woman, who seems to be pious, and is very kind to us. Miss Franks sent round her brother's letters, after she had written on them the name of the street and number of the house we were staying at, that the doctors might know where to find Alice.

The next day three doctors came and brought with them a Dr. W——, who, they said, knew more about the eyes than any of them. At first my little girl seemed shy of having so many strangers see her; but they were so kind to her, that she does not feel at all afraid now. Indeed, ma'am, everybody is kind to her, and they speak so softly and pitifully to her, that it often makes the tears come into my eyes, and my heart feel so full, that I have to go away to my room and thank God for all His goodness and theirs to her; for you know, ma'am, goodness to her child, and that a poor blind child too, is more to a mother than any thing people could do for her.

Two or three days ago, Dr. H., who they say is at the head of that Institution for the blind you talked to me about, came to see us, and he talked so gentle and pleasant like, that Alice loved him right away. He had some talk with the doctors when they came, and then he asked Alice if she would not like to know how blind children, who never had seen at all, read and wrote and sewed, and told her, if she would come to his house, he would teach her as they were taught, and that she would find many of them learning there. Alice seemed very glad to hear that she might learn to do these things now, and need not wait doing nothing till her eyes got well, for you know, ma'am, she was always an industrious child, and it grieves her sadly to sit all day idle. She asked though if I could come with her, and the kind gentleman said I could come with her in the morning, and bring her away in the afternoon. This made my heart jump for joy, for I was afraid he was going to say she must stay there all the time. She will begin to go next Monday.

And now, ma'am, I must tell you some more of Miss Franks' goodness. She has got me some plain sewing, and so many of her friends promise to employ me in that way, that I hope I shall be able to live by my needle; and then, ma'am, I think, maybe I ought to send back what money I have left, to them that were so good as to give it to me. Will you please, ma'am, to tell me if this would be right? Alice begs me to send her love to her dear friend, Miss Harriet, and her dutiful respects to you. She bid me tell Miss Harriet that she has not spent her gold piece yet. Please, ma'am, to tell the doctor how kind his sister has been to us, and thank him for all he has done for us. I am afraid, ma'am, I have tired you with this long letter; but indeed when I began to write, I could not help telling you of all the goodness which has been showed to me. God bless you, ma'am, prays

Yours, very thankfully,

Martha Scott."

Mrs. Scott was told that those who had given her the money would not have any of it returned, and she then, I afterwards found, paid every one in our village to whom she owed any thing, saying, that though they had told her to make herself easy, she could not be easy while she was in debt to those who, she knew, needed the money.

In a few months after she went to the Institution for the Blind, Alice wrote a letter to Harriet, and from that time they wrote to each other as often at least as once in a month. It has been now about three months since Dr. Franks, who had been making a visit in B——, brought Harriet a letter from Alice, which gave her great delight. You shall read it for yourself, and see how much reason she had to be pleased with it.

B——, April 14, 18—.

Dear Harriet,—

I am so happy that I can hardly write, or do any thing but tell everybody near me how happy I am; or when there is nobody near me, sit down and think of you and your good aunt, and Dr. Franks, and Susan and Lucy, and everybody that lives at home. Oh, Harriet, we are coming there—coming home next week—dear home. It is the middle of April now, and so many flowers will be opening, and the peach-trees and the apple-trees will be in bloom soon, and they will look so beautiful. I cannot see them, but I can smell them, and feel them, and think how they look. Oh, Harriet, how much better off I am than the poor children who never did see, and who cannot remember how such things looked! But I cannot write any more now, except good-by, from your affectionate

Alice.

P. S.—I have spent the gold piece; I will show you how, when I come.

Mrs. Scott sent a message to me by the doctor, to ask, with many apologies for troubling me, that I would get Betty Maclaurin to go to her house early in the next week, and put every thing in order for her by Wednesday evening, as she hoped to be at home some time in that night. Betty liked Mrs. Scott and Alice, and was quite ready to do them a kindness; so, early on Monday morning, she was at work, and she worked so industriously in the house, and Harriet so industriously in Alice's garden, that, before Wednesday evening, both house and garden were in perfect order.

Harriet's grandfather had taken so much interest in Alice, that he had said, when she came home he intended to come to see her; so Harriet found time, in the midst of all her preparations for her friend's arrival, to write him what day she was expected; and on Wednesday, not only he, but her grandmother also, who seldom left home, came to spend a week with us. I was not in the house when they arrived, and when I came in, Harriet met me at the door before I had seen them, and cried out, "Oh, Aunt Kitty! grandpapa's come, and grandmamma too; and only think what they have brought me—dear, pretty pony—as pretty as ever, with another beautiful new saddle and bridle. Is it not good in them, and am I not a happy girl?"

Now my little readers must not suppose that Mr. Armand had only made Harriet believe that pony was sold, while he really kept him for her. Oh no! Mr. Armand always told just the truth, and pony was sold—really and truly sold—to the gentleman he had spoken of, who had bought him for his son. This boy was gone to a school at a distance from his home, and besides, he was now so good a rider that his father thought he might have a larger horse when he came back, so he was not unwilling to let Mr. Armand have pony again, when he expressed a wish for him.

Harriet was indeed a happy girl this Wednesday evening, and still more happy was she when she set out, after an early breakfast the next morning, to ride on pony to Mrs. Scott's. As I started at the same time to walk there, and she would not leave me, she rode very slowly. If any of you can remember some morning in Spring, when the air, though cool, had not the least frosty feeling in it, when the grass was fresh and green, when the trees had put out their first tender leaves, and the peach and the pear and the apple blossoms looked as if just ready to open, to have risen early and walked or ridden out, while the leaves and the blossoms were still glittering with the night-dew, you will know how delightful Harriet and I found it. We went on, at a brisk pace for me, and a slow one for pony, till we were in sight of Mrs. Scott's house, when Harriet looked so eager, that I bade her hasten on. As I spoke, I cheruped to pony, and he went off in a smart trot, which soon brought Harriet to the gate. I had then just entered the clear space before the house, and could see and hear all that passed. Alice was standing at the open window, looking healthy and happy. As pony stopped, she called out to her mother, who seemed to be in some other room, for she spoke loudly, "Mother, mother, here is somebody on horseback—it must be the doctor."

"No, Alice, it is Harriet," cried my little niece, as she sprang from her pony, without much of the caution which she had promised her grandfather always to use in getting down.

"Oh! it is Harriet," exclaimed Alice, clapping her hands joyfully together, and then putting them out to feel her way to the door. Mrs. Scott came from the next room, and taking her hand, led her to meet us. The little girls were in each other's arms in a moment, and any one who had looked at Alice's happy face, and her eyes bright with tender and glad feelings, would never have believed they saw a blind girl. Harriet told of the beautiful pony her grandpapa had brought her the evening before, and Alice passed her hands over him to feel how small he was and how sleek and glossy his sides were, and promised that she would sometimes mount him and walk him over to my house with Harriet at her side. Then they went into the flower-garden, and Alice exclaimed, "Oh, Harriet! how nicely you have weeded my beds and trimmed my flowers."

"Betty told you that," said Harriet.

"Betty told me who did it, but I knew it was done without her telling me, for I felt them. I did not have to feel my hyacinths and jonquils to know they were in bloom, for I smelt them, and I know exactly how they look. My rose-bushes too," said she, putting her hand on one, "are in bud; they will soon be beautiful. You see, Harriet, I love my garden, and can take pleasure in it, if I am blind;—but come into the house, and let me show you the books they have taken pains to make for poor blind people, and the different kinds of work I have learned to do."

Alice took Harriet's hand, and walked with a quick and lively step into the house. When they had entered the door, she left Harriet, and putting her hands out to feel that there was nothing in her way, passed into the next room, and soon came out again with her arms full. There were only a few books—I was sorry to see so few—but they were so large that she could not well have carried any more. Having laid them on the table, she opened one, and we saw that the letters were large, and so raised from the paper that the blind could feel their form, and thus distinguish them as readily as we can distinguish the letters in ordinary printing by seeing them. Alice soon showed us how this was done, for passing her finger over the lines of a sentence on the page to which she had opened, she read it as correctly as anybody could have done. Then turning with quickness to a box which stood near, she said, "Now see my work."—There were baskets she had woven, purses and bags she had knitted, pincushions and needle-books she had sewed as neatly as possible. Full of animation and happy as Alice seemed in showing these things, I am certain she was not half so happy in showing, as Harriet was in seeing them. Having looked at them myself, I went into the garden to show Mrs. Scott where some seeds were planted. From the garden I could still hear and see through an open window what was passing in the parlor, and I was too much interested in the feelings of these little girls not to attend to them. I soon saw, however, that they did not think themselves observed; for Harriet—who had hitherto spoken little, expressing her pleasure in looks more than in words—as soon as they were left alone, took Alice's hand, and said, "How glad I am you can do so much!"

"I knew you would be glad, and that made me show you; and I wish I could show them to all the kind people who gave mother money to take me to B., for, you know, if it was not for that, I could not have learned to do these things,—and you don't know, Harriet, how hard those first dark weeks were to bear, and how often, when I thought it would be always so, I wished I was in the grave-yard with my little brother and sisters;—that was wicked, I know, Harriet, but I could not help it then."

Harriet stood with her face turned from me, yet I could see by her movements that she was weeping.

Alice put her arm around her, saying, "Don't cry, I am very happy now."

"And so am I," said Harriet, sobbing, "and I believe that's what makes me cry."

"That's funny too," said Alice laughing, and Harriet laughed with her, though the tears were still on her cheeks. Then Alice told that there was a kind shopkeeper in B., who had promised to buy all she made, and that her mother said, she got so much money from him, that she could afford to keep a woman—Alice hoped it would be Betty—to do the hard work, and as she would only take in a little plain sewing, she would then be able to sit with Alice, and could sometimes spare time to read to her. "And Harriet," she added, "I promised to show you what I had bought with the gold piece you gave me. I bought the straw for my first baskets, and the braids and ribands for my first purses and bags, and the pieces of silk and velvet for my first pincushions and needle-books; so you see how much it helped me," and she kissed Harriet, little knowing how much more she owed to her.

And now, if any of my little readers have thought that Harriet made a foolish choice, when she gave up her pony to help her friend, they will, I am sure, change their minds when they remember what a sad house this was at the time that Alice first became blind, and think that now, as Harriet looked at Mrs. Scott's contented and Alice's cheerful face, and saw how much her friend could do and could enjoy, and heard that by her pleasant employments she could not only support herself comfortably, but help her mother too, she could say to herself—"This is my work—it is I who have made them so happy." Who would not have given pony for such a feeling, even though they had never got him back again?

When we were going away, Alice very modestly gave me a beautiful work-basket, a very neat needle-book, and pincushion, all of her own make. For Harriet she had made a very pretty bag, and hearing that Mr. and Mrs. Armand were with us, she selected a very handsome purse and needle-book, and requested Harriet to present them to her grandfather and grandmother, as the offerings of a blind girl.

And now, my young friends, I have little more to tell you of Alice. If you could visit her, you would find her sometimes employed in making those tasteful and pretty things, by the sale of which she aids in supporting her mother and herself—sometimes in her garden, feeling for the weeds and pulling them away from her plants, or tying up her vines, or cutting flowers to dress their pleasant little parlor—sometimes walking, leaning on her mother's arm, or on that of some young companion,—and though you may see her look a little sad when her friends speak of a beautiful flower, or admire a fine sunset, you will oftener hear her sweet voice in cheerful talk, or merry laugh, or singing some pleasant hymn, expressive of her gratitude to God for His goodness to her. And when you see and hear all this, you will, I hope, not envy Harriet, for that would be a wrong feeling, but watch every opportunity of going and doing like her.

As this has been a very long story, and I do not wish to tire you, I will now bid you good-by, hoping you will soon wish to hear from me again. Whenever you do, I shall know it, and shall be quite ready to have another talk with you.

THE END.