Front Cover
 Title Page
 Blind Alice
 Melodies for the Young
 The Ewe and Lamb
 Pleasant Day
 The Glow-worm
 Tea and Sugar
 Jessie Graham; or, Friends Dear,...
 The Gardeners
 My Pretty Bird
 Florence Arnott; or, Is She...
 Yes or No
 The Frost
 Grace and Clara; or, Be Just as...
 Back Cover

Group Title: Home library for little readers
Title: Blind Alice and her benefactress
Full Citation
Permanent Link: http://ufdc.ufl.edu/UF00002077/00001
 Material Information
Title: Blind Alice and her benefactress
Series Title: Home library for little readers
Alternate Title: Juvenile tales
Physical Description: 111 p. : ill., music ; 12 cm.
Language: English
Creator: McIntosh, Maria J ( Maria Jane ), 1803-1878
Nelson, Thomas, 1822-1892
Dickes, William, 1815-1892 ( Illustrator )
Publisher: Thomas Nelson
Place of Publication: London
Publication Date: 1851
Subject: Happiness -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Blind children -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Children with disabilities -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Girls -- Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Friendship -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Children's songs, English   ( lcsh )
Family stories -- 1851   ( local )
Bldn -- 1851
Genre: Family stories   ( local )
novel   ( marcgt )
Spatial Coverage: England -- London
Statement of Responsibility: by the author of "Jessie Graham," etc.
General Note: "Melodies for the young" with music: p. <103>-111.
General Note: Engraving signed: W. Dickes.
General Note: Baldwin Library copy bound with: Jessie Graham, or Friends dear, but truth dearer / by the author of "Blind Alice," etc. (Home library for little readers) London : Thomas Nelson, 1849, and 2 other titles.
Funding: Brittle Books Program
 Record Information
Bibliographic ID: UF00002077
Volume ID: VID00001
Source Institution: University of Florida
Rights Management: All rights reserved by the source institution and holding location.
Resource Identifier: aleph - 002446370
oclc - 45635286
notis - AMF1616

Table of Contents
    Front Cover
        Front 1
        Front 2
        Front 3
        Page 7
    Title Page
        Page 8
    Blind Alice
        Page 9
        Page 10
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        Page 101
        Page 102
    Melodies for the Young
        Page 103
    The Ewe and Lamb
        Page 104
        Page 105
    Pleasant Day
        Page 106
        Page 107
    The Glow-worm
        Page 108
        Page 109
    Tea and Sugar
        Page 110
        Page 111
    Jessie Graham; or, Friends Dear, but Truth Dearer
        Page 7
        Page 8
        Page 9
        Page 10
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    The Gardeners
        Page 125
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    My Pretty Bird
        Page 127
        Page 128
    Florence Arnott; or, Is She Generous?
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    Yes or No
        Page 122
        Page 123
    The Frost
        Page 124
        Page 125
        Page 126
        Page 127
    Grace and Clara; or, Be Just as Well as Generous
        Page 7
        Page 8
        Page 9
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    Back Cover
        Page 110
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Full Text

The Baldwin Library
[iBi iR."1

a ;~~k2/~ "
K2 a'tG4t.l;/~


7 --

''They reil me spring is cominir,
With her eal~h --f blidr mi-I fl-wers;
But I hoarr nn wild bee humming
Arni- Ov- leafy bowers
And till tIhe bir IR are.- wining
With nin~tic fr-m th- tiep.
Till Or,e in~tect trit*4 are sitAixig.
Spring: is nut spristt' o me.*






Little I know of beauty's form,
The dimpled mouth the snowy skin,
But I ean learn from step and voice,
If gentle be the heart within.*
Blind Girl' Bsong



1-__ _________________________ ______


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 forgot-
ten, 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. Be-
sides 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 birthday presents,
and have helped them out of many trou-
bles, 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-humour. 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 shut-
ters, its neat paling and pretty flower-gar-
den, 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
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-humoured 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 in
consequence of its being so sickly, and had
come here because they had heard it was a

healthy place. The girls said that Alice
looked very well herself, but that Mrs.
Scott was pale, and that Alice said she was
very 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 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 sor-
rowful,-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
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 courtyard 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
parlour, 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 shell
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 vil-
lage, Mrs. Scott was subject to very dis-
tressing 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 the
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 Har-
riet, I hope you will come back soon, and
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 pa-
tiently, that when at the end of six weeks
we were about returning home, her grand-
father gave her half-a-sovereign, 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 de-
light, 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 ai

soon as I could. She had not yet decided
what would be the prettiest name for it,
or the most becoming colour 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 tops to amuse her. Among the books
were several of those nice 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 sun-
set, and as Harriet was much fatigued, she
was soon put to bed. Her room opened
into mine, and I went early in the morn-
ing 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 two shillings, and I've
counted, and there are five times two shil-
lings in my half sovereign."
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 7"
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 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, and that after breakfast she might
write down their names and give them to
me, and I would send for them to a book-

seller in the city. In the mean time I re-
minded 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-parlour, intending to
put some questions to the servant who was
there about my neighbours, 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-up persons, had died of
scarlet fever. Among the last was Mr.
Scott; and Alice had been near death,-
indeed, was very ill. This news made me
very sad, and when Harriet heard of 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 courtyard 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 Har-
riet 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 parlour-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 parlour, 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 ap-
peared, poor child, to be both frightened
and distressed. It seemed to me that she
was complaining to her mother of the dark-
ness 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, my 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 youl 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 her-
self, 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 any body 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-conti-
nued 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 weep-
ing 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 beloved child was blind,
quite blind, and must, he feared, be so al-
I have told you that Mrs. Scott has 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 n., w 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 dis-
tresses them, they are not to run away
from it, but to try to do something to re-
move 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 see she is
better." Then going up to Alice, and tak-
ing 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 1"
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 reco-
vering 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 with-
out 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 espe-
cially 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 cheer-
fully 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 what
she intended to do with it. Alice quite

approved of Harriet's intention to buy
books instead of a doll, and Harriet pro-
mised 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 handker-
chief 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 1"
"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 me how long I had been
at home.
Only since yesterday evening," I re-
plied, "and I have so much 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 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 handker-
chief 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. Har-
riet 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 y6u 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 rest-
Harriet and I then left the room, and
were followed by Mrs. Scott, who told
Alice she was going to the door with us,
und would soon be back. She opened the

door for us, and when we had gone out, she
stepped out too, and taking my hand, she
thanked me again and again for the com-
fort I had given her poor blind girl, as she
called Alice, when she was too much stun-
ned, 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 would 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 sup-
pose 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 get there, when I owe
more money than I can pay for a long
while, without working very hard, and liv-
ing myself, and what's worse, making my
poor child live, on bread and water."
I tried to say something that might com-
fort 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 complain-
ing 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 1"
"I fear not, my love, I fear not-cer-
tainly not, unless Mrs. Scott can take her
where she can have more done for her than
any body 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 poorly"
"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
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 to 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 what-
ever distressed her. In the afternoon she
tried to amuse herself, bringing out first a
book and then a toy from her room into
the parlour 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, appa-
rently 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 parlour, 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
"What, my love 1" said I.
"Nothing, ma'am-good night to you,"
and taking her candle she went to her
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 Har-
riet if she was asleep; but as soon as I
entered, she called out, "I'm not asleep,
dear 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 some-
thing 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 go-
ing 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 half-soverign, if it would help
poor Alice."
And what made my little girl change
her mind-what made her think this would
not be best I"
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 which
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 of you not to
do it, yet somehow I could not-so I only
bid you good-night, and came to bed."
"And what happened then to make you
fed differently I Tell me all you thought
and felt, 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 every body 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 I"
"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 seem-
ing 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 conversa-
tion 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 con-

versation, and said, "Now, Aunt Kitty, you
will tell me what you promised 1"
"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 your ques-
As soon as we had set out for Mrs.
Scott's, Harriet again reminded me of my
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 im-
pulse 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 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 with-
out a moment's thought, from a feeling of
pity for her, this would be acting from im-
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 play-
*mate, 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 feel-
ings 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 some-
times 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 be-
gan to cry, or at least, to seem to cry, say-
ing 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 to 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 com-
mitted a greater fault by saying what was
not true,-she told her she had lost the
shilling. The lady thought her very care-
less, and thus she got blame which she did
not deserve, and as she was really a good
little girl in general, she was quite miser-
able 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 shil-
ling 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 on 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 1"
"It was not wrong at all, my dear, for
you not to give it till you had asked your-
self 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 7
This, you can ask immediately, and you
need not wait long for an answer-consci-
ence 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 1"
"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 con-
science 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 con-
science tells you a feeling is wrong, you
must try to get rid of it at once."
"Get rid of it, Aunt Kitty!" said Har-
riet, with a wondering look, "how can I get
rid of a feeling 1"
The best way, my dear Harriet, is by
refusing to do anything 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 anything 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 very angry, not to say
anything, and I could not help talking."
"I know, my dear, that it is often diffi-
cult, 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 instruc-
tions 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 re-
ceive 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
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
I was pleased to see, as I approached,
that the house looked more cheerful. The
parlour 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

very 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 awoke this morn-
ing, though that was long before daylight.
But now," she added, speaking very fast,
as if 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 l 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 impru-
dent 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 anything looks which you want
very much to see."
"Oh! I shall like that, for then, Har-
riet, 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 he pleas-
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 be-
fore, 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 upon the table
near her. The doctor passed this lamp be-
fore 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 plain-
ly as 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 courtyard to say that he was
glad to see me at home again, and to ask
how his little friend Harriet was, for Har-
riet 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 parlour, I
went to the gate of the courtyard and told
the doctor I wanted to put some questions
to him about Alice, which I would rather
Mrs. Scott did 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 anything 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

"Not if she go to B.," replied the
doctor quickly. That, you know, is the
place from which I came, and I know a
number of physicians there. To some of
these I would give Mrs. Scott letters, and
through them, the pious and excellent
Doctor 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 anything
of the institution for the blind in B. 1
"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, per-
haps enough to support herself and her
mother too; and I need not tell you what
a comfort that would be to a good and af-
fectionate 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 fa-
tigue her so much as travelling by land.
He added, if by Saturday evening I were
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 parlour, 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
Willing, my dear ma'am!" said the
good woman, "I shall be thankful indeed
to the kind people who gave 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 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, may-be, 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 per-
mission to stay till evening, when I pro-
mised to send for her, adding that I would
call myself the next morning.
"And then, ma'am," said Alice, "do
you not think-" she stopped, and seemed
"Do I not think what, Alice-speak,
my dear child,-what would you ask 1"
"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 7"
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
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 Fa-
ther. Do you think, Alice, 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 upon 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 own children,
never, we may be sure, suffers any pain or
trouble to come upon us which is not to
save us from some 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 conver-
sation between a mother and her sick
child 1"
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.



Morma, we read to-day you know,
Where holy Scriptures tell
That Jesus, when he lived below,
Loved little children well.

And then you told me how his word,
From the bad spirit's power,
Freed him, who never spoke, nor heard,
Until that blessed hour.

Beside the ruler's lifeless child,
In pitying tone he spoke,
"The maiden sleeps"-though corners smiled,
She heard his voice, and woke.

And now, you say, above the sky
Unchanged, he loves us still;
Then why did he let baby die,
And why am I so ill t

When Mary walked with mother last,
She saw a little flower,
Drooping its head and fading fast
Within her garden bower.

To a more sunny spot removed,
That flower blooms fair and bright;
Our drooping baby Jesus loved,
And bore from earthly blight.

And though, my child, I cannot tell
Why yet he leaves you ill,
As I am sure he loves you well,
I doubt not that he will,
At the best time, heal every pain,
And make my Mary well again.

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. How-
ever, about an hour after I had gone home,
when I had written, and just as I was fold-
ing 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, prefer-

ring 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 men-
tion 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 parlour, her grandfather moved away
from the window, so that she might not see
him till she was quite in the parlour. She
came up the steps, and through the porch
and to the parlour 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 to-
wards 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 7" 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 bet-
ter satisfied with her, he added, And who
is Alice ---and what makes her poorly "
Alice! Why, do not you remember
Alice Scott, that I talked so much about
when I was at your house 1 Do you not re-
member I told you I loved to play with
her better than with any of the girls, be-
cause she was so good-natured, and never
was tired ?"
Ah now I think I do remember some-
thing of her. And is it because she is so
pleasant a playfellow, that you wish me to
give you some money for her 1"
Oh no, grandpapa-that would be very
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 1-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 1"
Yes, grandpapa, I have given her all I
had; but though it was a 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 I have
just spent a great deal of money on a pre-
sent for you, and I really have now none to
"Spent a great deal of money on a pre-
sent for me !" repeated Harriet, with a
wondering face.
Yes, my dear. I think sixteen pounds
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 nice little wax doll to play
with in the house, and such a little pony
to ride when she went out V"
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 which
I gave, as I have just told you, sixteen
"Oh, Aunt Kitty!" cried Harriet, her
eyes bright with joy, only hear, that beau-
tiful little pony! and he is so gentle that I
may ride him all by myself-may I not,
grandpapa 1"
"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, turn-
ing 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
"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 I 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 morn-
ing 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 grand-
papa 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 joy-
fully as she had done when she first heard

of the pony. After a while her counte-
nance grew more and more serious. Seve-
ral minutes had passed, and her grandfather
and I were talking of something else, when
Harriet said to him, k" Grandpapa, would
that gentleman who wanted the pony,
give you the whole sixteen pounds back
"Yes, my love."
"And would you give it all to Alice,
grandpapa 1"
I should have no right to give any of
it, Harriet. The pony is now yours, and
should you choose me to sell him, ths
money would be yours, and I should hon-
estly pay every penny 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
Her grandfather laid his hand affection-
ately 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 morn-
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 grand-
father asked, on the morning he left us,
"Well, Harriet, does pony go with me, or
stay with you I" 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,
smiling," 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 gentle-
man who bought him only lived about ten
miles from us) came the sixteen pounds,
enclosed in a very affectionate note to Har-
riet from her grandfather. She seemed
never tired of reading the note, or of ad-
miring 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 I"
She looked confused, hesitated a good
deal, and said, Aunt Kitty, do you re-
member 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 1"
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 1 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
"No, Aunt Kitty, not of changing-at
least I could not take it back-but-but
you know-" she stopped and hung her
"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 four pounds to Har-
riet's gift, and so there were twenty pounds
for Mrs. Scott to begin her 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 parlour.
I gave her the money, and the doctor
had his letters ready for her, and ex-
plained 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
Alice was sitting up, and was so anxi-
ous for our coming, and so happy at the
thought of seeing once more, that she had

quite a rosy colour 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 disap-
pointed. 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 dis-
eases 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
fur many days to come, you will not see
at all."

As Dr. Franks spoke, the smile had
gone from Alice's lip, and the colour from
her cheek, so that when he was done, in-
stead 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. But the doctor and I were
much grieved for her, and Mrs. Scott's
tears fell upon her head as she stood lean-
ing over the back of her chair. Alice
did not weep-indeed, she seemed quite
After awhile, 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
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 1"
No, my child, it is not more than four
o'clock in the afternoon."
She was silent a minute, then said, Is
it cloudy 1"
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 1"
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 mourn-
fully, "Mother, mother, where are you ?"
"Here, here, my own dear .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 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

Harret's present of the gold piece, and
when she bade me good-by, said, I thank
you, ma'am, very much, for all your good.
ness to me."
Mrs. Scott, too, begged me to tell the
friends that 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 colour 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 thank-
fulness would make her, for her desire
to do right, and her readiness to give
up her own pleasures for her friend's
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-.
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 who have helped

me through this affliction. It is a comfort
to me to feel that everything has been done
for my poor child that could be done; in-
deed, 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 that to
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, think-
ing 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 car-
riage, as I found afterwards, for I thought

st first it was her own; but she would not
let me pay anything 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 the
number of the house we were staying at,
that the doctors might know where to find
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
very shy of having strangers come to 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 anything which 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 gently and plea-
santly that Alice loved him at once. 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 in-
dustrious child, and it grieves her sadly to
sit all day idle. She asked, though, if I
could come with her, and the kind gentle-

man said I might come with her in the
morning, and bring her away in the after-
noon. 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 I 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 shown to me. God bless you,
ma'am, prays,
Yours, very thankfully,

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 anything, 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 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 then you will see how much reason
she had to be pleased with it.


B-, April 14, 18-
I am so happy that I can hardly
write, or do anything 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 com-
ing 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 beauti-
ful. 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-bye, from your
affectionate ALICE.

P. 8.-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 kind-
ness; so, early on Monday morning, she
was at work, and she worked so industri-
ously in the house, and Harriet so industri-
ously in Alice's garden, that before Wed-
nesday 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 ar-
rival, to write him what day she was ex-
pected; 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-the dear,
pretty pony-as pretty as ever, with an-
other 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 the pony was sold, while he
really kept him for her. Oh no! Mr. Ar-
mand always told just the truth, and the
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 the 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 the
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 glit-
tering 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 the 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 the pony, and he went
off in a smart trot, which soon brought
Harriet to the gate. I had then just en-
tered 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 the 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 pro-
mised 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 pro-
mised 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 require to feel my hya-
cinths and jonquils to know they were in
bloom, for I smelt them, and I know ex-
actly how they look. My rosebushes, 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 the 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 out her hands 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
feet 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 sen-
tence on the page which she had opened,
she read it as correctly as any body 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 knit-
ted, pin-cushions and needle-books which
she had sewed as neatly as possible. Full
of animation, and as happy as Alice seemed
in showing these things, I am certain she
was not half so happy in showing, as Har-
riet 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
a *

hear and see through an open window
what was passing in the parlour, and I wa
too much interested in the feelings of these
little girls not to attend to them. I soon
saw, however, that they did not think that
they were observed ; for Harriet-who had
hitherto spoken little, expressing her plea-
sure 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 graveyard with my
little brother and sisters ;-that was wick-
ed, 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, laugh-
ing, and Harriet laughed with her, though
the tears were still on her cheeks. Then
Alice told that there was a kind shop-
keeper 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 pin-cushions 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 had 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 and Alice's
contented, cheerful faces, and saw how
much her friend could do and could enjoy,
and that by her pleasant employment 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 the 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 pin-cushion,
all of her own making. For Harriet she had
now 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 pre-

sent them to her grandfather and grand-
mother, 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 par-
lour; 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 gra-
titude 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.


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