"Run to the window, mamma, run to the window, and see who is come," cried Florence, a few days after, bursting into the room where her mother and I were sitting, just before dinner.

It was not necessary to run to the window, it was only necessary to look into Florence's joyful face to see that her father had come. I lifted my eyes to Mr. Arnott's face as he entered: there was no cloud on his brow, no expression but that of grateful joy in his eyes, and I said to myself, all has gone prosperously with him. It was even so. The lawyer, on his return, delivered to Mr. Arnott papers which he had drawn up for Mr. Atwater, and which, with his will, had been left in his hands for safe-keeping. These papers fully secured Mr. Arnott's property. He had lost nothing, but had gained from past anxiety a very useful lesson—never to put off important business, even for a day.

In the evening we gathered around the fire, with grateful and happy hearts, to hear and to tell the events of those weeks of separation. Already, however, when Florence was not present, Mr. Arnott had heard from his wife of her constant tenderness, and watchful attention to her comfort, and from me of her generous plans for aiding them, should the ill fortune come which they anticipated. He did not praise her in words, but she could not meet his eye, or hear his tones, without feeling that she was dearer than ever to her father's heart. Just before we separated for the night, he drew her to him, and seating her on his knee, said, "Florence, did you ever read the fairy story of the three wishes?"

"Yes, papa."

"Well, I will be your good fairy. Make three wishes, and they shall be granted."

Florence laughed gayly.

"Why, papa! fairies are always women."

"Well, I will be a magician; they are men, are they not?"

"Yes."

"Now make your wishes."

"What shall I wish for, mamma?"

"Stop," said Mr. Arnott, "they must be your own wishes; nobody must prompt them, or the spell is broken."

"And if I make a wrong wish, may I not take it back, and wish over again?"

"No—so be careful what you say."

Florence became grave, and was silent for a few minutes; then looking up with a smile, said, "I have two wishes, but I cannot think of a third."

"Let me hear the two, and you can take a longer time to think of the third."

"Well, first, I wish little Jem O'Donnel could be sent to school, and when he gets big enough, could be taught a trade—that is one wish."

"That is one wish! I thought that was two wishes."

"Oh no, papa! only one."

"Well, let it pass for one. It shall be done, that is, with his parents' consent, which you must get Aunt Kitty to procure for you. Now for the second wish."

"I wish little Lucy Dermot could be taught music, so as to give lessons, and support her mother and herself."

"You extravagant girl," said Mr. Arnott, "it is well I limited your wishes to three, or I should be a ruined man."

"Oh, papa! fairies and magicians never find any fault with our wishes, if they are ever so extravagant."

"Well, Lucy Dermot shall be taught music, if she be able and willing to learn. Now for the third wish."

"Oh! I must have till to-morrow to think of that. That is my last wish, and it must be something very good."

"To-morrow, then, I shall expect to hear it; and now you may go and dream of it. Good-night."

I went down early the next morning to put some books, which I had finished reading, into their places in the library, an apartment communicating with the breakfast-parlor by a door, now standing open. While I was there, Mr. Arnott entered the parlor, and immediately after, Florence bounded in, exclaiming, "Oh, papa! I have found out my third wish."

"Well, my daughter, what is it?"

"Why, you know, papa, nurse has a daughter, and she is her only child, just as I am your only child; and she is very good, too, nurse says."

"Just as you are very good, I suppose."

"Oh no, papa, I did not mean that; but she is going to be married—at least, she would have been married a year ago, nurse says, but the man she is to be married to is working hard to try and get a house for her to live in first—"

"And how did you hear all this, Florence? Did nurse know of my promise to you, and did she ask you to speak of this?"

"Oh no, papa! she does not know any thing about it. I thought when I had such a good chance, I ought to do something for nurse; so, when she was putting me to bed last night, I asked her what she wished for most in the world, and she said she was so well taken care of that she had not any thing to wish for; and I said, 'Not if anybody was to promise to give you just what you should ask for, nurse, could you not find any thing to wish for then?' and so nurse told me about her daughter, and said she did wish sometimes she had a home for her, and I thought my third wish should be for a house for her. Just a small house, you know, papa, with flowers all about it, and a garden, and a poultry yard, and a dairy, and—"

"Stop, Florence—here are half a dozen wishes at once. I will tell you what I will do. I will have a small but comfortable house built—"

"And a garden to it, papa?"

"Yes, a garden and a poultry yard; the dairy can wait until it is wanted, and the flowers they can plant themselves. This house you shall give to nurse, and she can let her children have it until she wants to occupy it herself. It is only right, as you say, that something should be done for her."

"Oh, thank you—thank you, papa! That will be my very wish."

"And now, Florence, your three wishes have been wished, and not one of them for yourself. Have you no selfish desires, my child?"

"Oh yes, papa!" said Florence, in a serious tone, "a great many."

"I should like to know how you find them, Florence?"

Mr. Arnott meant to express by this, that he never saw these selfish desires manifested by Florence; but she understood him literally to mean, that he wished to know how she discovered them, and she answered; "Why, you know, papa, Aunt Kitty made a little prayer for me once, when I was very, very selfish, and I thought I would say that prayer every night till I had no more selfishness left; so every night I went over in my own mind what had happened in the day, to see if I must say it, and, papa, there has never been a single night that I have not had to say it, and I am afraid it always will be so."

"It will, my dear child, for there is selfishness in our hearts as long as we live; but while you watch over yourself, and pray earnestly to God against it, he will give you power always to act generously—to subdue your selfish feelings."

I have told you enough of Florence, my dear young friends, to enable you to answer the question—is she generous? But my book has done little if it has not made you ask a question of much more importance to each one of you—are you yourself generous? Before you answer, yes, remember that the truly excellent are always humble, and that Florence never felt how much selfishness was in her heart, till she became generous. Should your conscience answer, no, imitate Florence in her simple, earnest prayer, and honest efforts to amend, and be assured that the same heavenly Father will hear and help you.