Title Page
 Phoebe; or, the hospital

Title: Phoebe, or, The hospital
Full Citation
Permanent Link: http://ufdc.ufl.edu/UF00003579/00001
 Material Information
Title: Phoebe, or, The hospital
Alternate Title: Phebe
Physical Description: 69, <1> p. : ill. ; 15 cm.
Language: English
Creator: Howland, William ( Engraver )
General Protestant Episcopal Sunday School Union ( Publisher )
Publisher: General Protestant Episcopal Sunday School Union
Place of Publication: New York
Publication Date: 1851
Subject: Christian life -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Family -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Humility -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Publishers' advertisements -- 1851   ( rbgenr )
Bookplates (Provenance) -- 1851   ( rbprov )
Family stories -- 1851   ( local )
Bldn -- 1851
Genre: Publishers' advertisements   ( rbgenr )
Bookplates (Provenance)   ( rbprov )
Family stories   ( local )
novel   ( marcgt )
Spatial Coverage: United States -- New York -- New York
Statement of Responsibility: by the author of "The Prize," "Maurice Favell"...
General Note: Publisher's advertisement: "Other books by the author," follows text.
General Note: Wood engraved frontispiece signed: Howland.
Funding: Brittle Books Program
 Record Information
Bibliographic ID: UF00003579
Volume ID: VID00001
Source Institution: University of Florida
Rights Management: All rights reserved by the source institution and holding location.
Resource Identifier: aleph - 002235823
oclc - 45585830
notis - ALH6287
 Related Items
Other version: Alternate version (PALMM)
PALMM Version

Table of Contents
        Page 2
    Title Page
        Page 3
        Page 4
    Phoebe; or, the hospital
        Page 5
        Page 6
        Page 7
        Page 8
        Page 9
        Page 10
        Page 11
        Page 12
        Page 13
        Page 14
        Page 15
        Page 16
        Page 17
        Page 18
        Page 19
        Page 20
        Page 21
        Page 22
        Page 23
        Page 24
        Page 25
        Page 26
        Page 27
        Page 28
        Page 29
        Page 30
        Page 31
        Page 32
        Page 33
        Page 34
        Page 35
        Page 36
        Page 37
        Page 38
        Page 39
        Page 40
        Page 41
        Page 42
        Page 43
        Page 44
        Page 45
        Page 46
        Page 47
        Page 48
        Page 49
        Page 50
        Page 51
        Page 52
        Page 53
        Page 54
        Page 55
        Page 56
        Page 57
        Page 58
        Page 59
        Page 60
        Page 61
        Page 62
        Page 63
        Page 64
        Page 65
        Page 66
        Page 67
        Page 68
        Page 69
        Page 70
Full Text

,I A/11
*,, i*
*.*: l ) 1 r
'^A5 *^
.* ^ f. yc "?

p d CE B v.

~ili ~\5 ''






ht Epsitni.







a. .



WILLIAM FREEMAN returned home from
his work one evening early in March, and
found his wife, who had prepared every thing
for his return, looking sad, and as if she had
been crying, very different from the fresh,
brisk, cheerful manner which he used to
reckon upon, when he opened his cottage-
door, with as much certainty as the warm
fire and comfortable supper.
What's the matter, wife ?" he began; "is
Phoebe worse?"
"No, not worse, I hope," she replied,
'though she has had a sad day of it, poor
ti ; but,the doctor has been here, and he
.... .

- "


says he can do no good with her here;- that
she ought to go to the hospital at N- if
we want her cured, and he says he'll get her
in if we like; but oh, William, I can't let
her go. What will a poor child like that do
without a mother to take care of her ? l*o,
I can never let her go."
William sat sad and thoughtful for some
time; at last he said: "You see she gets no
better; every time I come home at night she
looks more pining and wasted than when I"
left her in the morning, and it's a pity to
see such a nice bonny little lass as she was,
changed into a poor pale thing, starting and
frightened if a dog does but bark, and so
worn out by the noises of the other children
ald baby's crying. I'm sure if they could do
her any good, I'd let her go to the hospital;
for, take all the care and pains you "can, it's
clear to me she gets worse instead of better
and pains enough you do take, that is


you have rest neither night nor day wittl,
,, 1\ -
The eo Brsation lasted some time; and
under her husband's way of looking on the
subject, the poor anxious mother began to
make up her mind, that if it could be proved
really for her child's good, she would part
with her, and commit her to the care of
strangers. It is not necessary to;xplaia all
that passed; the doctor repeated" his assurance
to William Freeman, and it was settled at last,
that on the following Monday Phoebe should
be taken to the hospital. The town was six o.
miles off; but William Freeman dd not think
much of this distance, though with his litte-
girl in his arms. It made him sad, indeed,
to think, as he started on the journey, how
o salght her Aeight was, and how small a bur-
and 'hindrance.
.^hoebe, as her father said, had
e months, a fine, healthy child 3

. PH(EBE ; R,
an illness then came i'pon her which def
'all home-treatment, and all the receipts
the most experienced neighbor, and even
did not give way under the doctor'Preme-
dies, who explained to her father, that she
needed some most expensive medicines, and
also other things which, situated as they were,
it would be impossible for them to provide
for her. The poor child was sorry to leave
home, and felt grieved at her mother's distress
at parting from her, but she was too uncom--
fortable and ill in her own feelings to be able
to enter thoroughly into what was passing,
and the promise held out to her of getting
better, reconciled her to a good deal.
"Don't cry, mother," she said; "perhaps I
shall come' back again quite well;" but her
smile was so faint and languid as she spoke, .
that her mother found it harder than ever to
restrain her tears.
Her last care had been to wp the poor
W V^ .


child up in every warm thing the house con-
tained, and so defended, she reached the town
without feeling much of the keen March wind.
The hospital at N- was a large building
on the outskirts of the town, and thither her
father made his way at once. It was Monday
morning and the time for receiving patients,
and Phoebe felt rather frightened and bewil-
dered when her father set her down in the
midst of a little crowd of sick people collected
there from different parts of the country in the
same hope of relief. She had presently to go
through the further alarm of being examined
and questioned by the physician and after this
was over, she was given into the charge of a
nurse, and told to go up stairs, where she
would be instructed where to go and what to
do. The time had now come for her father to
take leave of her, and then it did seem a hard
thing to him to say good-bye to his little girl
:ot but nine years old, and leave her amdagst

A& kl
it -o. a ,.^


strangers. He felt no doubt, however, that he
was doing right, and besides he was comforted
by the doctor's kind manner, and the nurse's
promises of attention; so he kissed little
Phoebe, and was able to conceal from her the
sadness that was in his heart while he did so.
The poor child saw him go before she fully un-
derstood what had happened; for she was con-
fused by the new and strange scene, and besides
felt weak and ill after her journey. It was not
thought necessary for her to go to bed, or to be
confined to her own ward, so she was taken to
what is called the convalescent room, that is,
the room where those who are getting better, or
who are not bad enough to be obliged to lie in
bed in the day-time, spend their time. Several
women were there, and two or three quite
young people; but none so young as she was.
Most of them looked very pale and sickly to
Phoebe, who had never seen much of illness,
and the whole place, she thought, seemed

... .*. ^ ,, ja




strange and dull. Some few were engaged
in needle-work, and some were reading books,
their Bibles and Prayer-books, or others that
the clergyman had provided for them; but few
sick people can either read or work for long at
a time; so that generally the women were
resting themselves on the seats and long settles,
or talking now and then to one another in a
low voice. Phoebe was suffered to take her
place among them without much notice; prob-
ably they thought she would rather not have
any attention paid her, for she sat herself down
in a corner as soon as she could, as if wishing
to avoid observation. This first day seemed
very long; the only things to make a change
to her were, first, dinner, which she could not
eat, and then a dose of very bitter medicine,
which she contrived to swallow with less diffi-
culty than she usually made at home, because
she feared to draw attention upon her by
making a fuss about it; and last came tea,



which she found very refreshing. The nurse
then took her to her ward; for this is the name
of the bedrooms at a hospital; and showed her
which bed was to be hers. It looked very
clean and comfortable; and after a long and
weary day Phoebe felt glad and thankful to lie
down to rest once more. As she knelt down
and. said her prayers, it made her feel less
lonely to think that her mother would pray for
her too that night, and in this thought she fell
more soundly asleep than she had often done
She did not wake again till the middle of the
night, when the restless feelings of her illness
generally came most strongly upon her; and
she was beginning to call out for her mother to
come to her, as she was used to do, when the
thought rushed upon her mind that her mother
was far, far away, and that she was amongst
strangers. Poor child! it was more than she
could bear at such a time; for who does not



know what feelings of fear anA distress and
alarm will often crowd upon the mind at niglh
which the day shows to be unreasonable and
vain? She was ill too, and at that moment
thought herself even more ill than'she was;
and the end was, that after a frightened glance
round the dimly-lighted room, she gave way to
a flood of tears, which, when once begun, she
could not stop, and which almost threatened to
get beyond her control. At this moment some
one in the farthest bed, who till then seemed to
have been asleep, rose up and throwing a large
cloak round her, approached the bedside of the
poor disconsolate child. This was Mary Grey,
a young woman who had been for some time a
patient in the house, and who had observed
Phoebe from her first arrival, but being a shy,
retired person, had not liked to be the first
to take notice of her. But now when she heard
her distress, she willingly rose from her bed, ia
no ill humour though roused from a comfortable


14 ] ApB ; OR,

sleep which 'b uch needed, and went to try
what she could do to soothe and comfort her.
t the same time a voice from the opposite side
of the room cried out, in peevish tones:-
"Oh I for goodness' sake stop that child;
it's bad enough when one is well to have
their crying and noise, but when one is ill,
it's past all bearing;" then raising herself
with a sudden, impatient movement, as her
first complaint did not seem to be attended
to, she added, "Do be quiet, I tell you; do
you think nobody is ill but yourself?"
This angry appeal did Phoebe good so far,
that it roused her and stopped her tears, from
very surprise: she had in fact hitherto been
allowed to give way to her feelings far too
* much for her own good, her mother having
been always too patient and forbearing to like
to use any authority. She had considered,
justly enough, that such attacks were caused
by illness, and so must be excused; but she


had not thought sufficient that though ex-
cusable, it was the worst possible thing for
the child to be allowed to indulge in
and so it happened that Phoebe had never
received such a check before, and the effect
was certainly good upon her, for she was
silent at once. In this moment Mary Grey
came softly up to her, and speaking to her
in a kind voice, asked her what was the
matter that she cried so sadly; and gently
reminded her at the same time, by way of
explaining the angry voice from the corner,
that other people were ill too, and that it was
not kind or right to disturb them more than
could be helped. Phoebe felt the reasonable-
ness of this, and besides was comforted by
Mary's soft, gentle voice, and by the thought
that a kind person was near her; and after
answering her questions in as calm and quiet
a manner as she could, she promised to try*
to go to sleep, and resolutely shut her eyes

16 PH(EBE; OR,

to do so. Ma still sat on the bed, and
Phoebe was glad for her to be there. While
her eyes were closed, she could almost fancy
it her mother still at hand; but another
minute or two reminded her that it would be
very selfish of her to allow her new friend
to tire herself only to please her fancy, so
she begged her to leave her, and promised
she should not be disturbed any more; and
this was whispered so gently and softly, that
the sleeper in the other corner (for the angry
voice had fallen asleep again) could not be
roused by it; and with this promise Mary
returned to her "little bed, and in another
hour all in the room were again at rest.
The next day the acquaintance thus begun
between Phoebe and Mary Grey made consid-
erable progress. Phoebe naturally felt anxious
to see her new friend by daylight, to judge
* if she liked her appearance as well as her
soft voice and kind words. And she was
411 .


not disappointed; for Mary was certainly a
very pleasing-looking person, fair and modest,
and quiet in all her motions. There was
only one drawback to the pleasure of looking
at her; but that was a sad one. Mary was
very pale; and often she would start and put
her hand to her side or her head, as if struck
with a sudden attack of pain. When the
doctor of the house, too, came up to her and
made his usual inquiries, he looked serious
and grave, so that Phoebe, who was by,
felt sure he thought her very ill. Perhaps ,
Mary thought so too, but it did not make
any difference in her manner; and when he
had passed on, she turned again to Phoebe
as calmly and quietly as before, and encourw
aged her to go on with what she was saying.
You may fancy what a relief it was to Phoebe
to be able to talk of home and all that inter-
ested her. There *as a danger, indeed, of
her talking too much an long; but Mary

18 PH(EBE; OR,

perceived that sre looked tired and excited
before she was aware of it herself, and ad-
vised her to go and lie quietly on the bed
for a little while, which she did. She made
as little noise as possible; for the owner of
the angry voice in the corner, whose name
was Hannah Sanders, was still there, not hav-
ing risen with the others. Her appearance,
however, was not very alarming; she .was,
in fact, rather a pretty young woman, with
no look of particular ill health about her,
S nor of ill humour now the night was over.
She asked Phoebe some questions, as to who
was in the great room, &c.; but as she had
not yet become acquainted with many names,
Nthe could not satisfy her curiosity. When she
lay down sheA4lt very restless and poorly,
but kept as quiet as she could, took the medi-
cine that was brought her, and had sunk to
sleep when she was roused by voices near
her. It was Hannah Sanders converting with


a friend out of the town, who had come to
jay her a visit. They were talking over the
inmates of the house, and Phoebe paid little
attention to their conversation till she heard
the name of Mary Grey. The new comer
seemed to know her, and spoke well of her.
"I'm sorry she should be ill, poor thing,"
she said ; she seems so friendless, having
neither father nor mother belonging to her,
and so steady and thoughtful as she is. What
is the matter with her?"
"Oh! I don't know," answered Hannah; ,
she looks like a ghost, and I don't think
the doctors can do her any good. It's my
opinion that it's something they can do noth-
ing with that makes her ill."
"What can you mean ?" said the other, with
some curiosity.
"Well, I think she takes William's conduct
to heart. You know they were to have been
married long before this, and nolJ as left


20 PH(EBE; OR,

the town; he went off with some excuse about
seeking for work elsewhere, and she has heard
nothing of him for months."
"Indeed," said the friend; "well, I should
have thought better of him than to think he
would do such a thing-such a steady young
man and punctual at his church as he was!"
"Well I don't see such great harm," added
the other; "she is so quiet and formal in her
ways, that I dare say he got tired of it; and
besides, she was beginning to be sickly and
Poorly; and what can a poor man do, with a
sickly wife ? I did hear that William is court-
ing another young woman. I asked Mary
about it the other day, for I thought it would
S do her good to know every thing, and would
set up her spirit She said nothing, and looked
as cool as she could, as if she cared nothing
about it; but I could see she had heard it
Shij er a great deal without him, if he


is such a one as you think," said the friend in
some indignation, and a girl of her sense will
think so, I hope."
Soon after, the visitor left, and Phoebe re-
mained in silence to ponder over what she had
heard, and to grieve over Mary's state of health
that all seemed to think so ill of. She was full
of these feelings when she next saw Mary; but
then she looked so calm and easy, thought so
little of herself, and seemed so glad to help
others who needed help, that it was impossible
not to think better of her case.
Hannah Sanders came into the convalescent
room at the same time with Phoebe. She was
fast recovering, and was in high spirits and full
of pleasure at the thought of leaving. Sh V
talked a great deal about herself to Mary, who
seemed a kind listener to every body, and de-
scribed all the places she had been at in a way
that amused Phoebe a good deal, who had never
before been in the way of hearing auch talk:


but though she was amused, she could not
like Hannah very much, and she was there-
fore quite puzzled to hear from her what a
high value all her friends and the mistress
whom she was with, seemed to have for her;
and Phoebe could not, in spite of herself,
help feeling respect for a person who, by her
own account, could do so many things better
than any body else; who was so trustworthy,
and thoughtful; and handy, and industrious,
that no one ever dould be found to supply
her place. It must be very nice, thought
Phoebe, to be so well thought of, and to do so
many things well; but I wonder she should
like to talk of it. Then she began to wish
"aMary would begin to tell something about
. herself, and was half inclined to be vexed at
first that she had nothing to boast of in re-
turn. But Mary listened very quietly, and
did not seem at all inclined to interrupt or
take her share in the conversation, till Han,


nah began to reflect on the treatment she had
received in the house.
"She could not say that she had been at-
tended to as she had expected, and indeed she
had a good many things to complain of."
"Have you?" said Mary very gently.
Well, you have a home and plenty of
places to go to, and I suppose that makes
you particular; but it is different with me,
and I never can be thankful enough for all
the care and kindness I have found here. It
makes my heart full whenever I think of it.
I am sure that Mr. Maynard (the house-
surgeon) cares as much about us, and that
every thing A take should do us good, as
if we were his children."
"You may be a favourite," answered the
other: "but I must say for myself, that he
will never hear half I have got to say, but
seems in such a hurry."
"At least," said Mary, with a smile, "he



has done you good, he and all the doctors
together; for you don't look like the same
person you were when you came in."
"Yes," answered Hannah; "but there are
not many with such a constitution as I have.
I go out next Monday," she continued, after
a little pause'; "how long do you stay ?"
I don't know yet," Mary replied; "not
very much more, I am afraid."
"Oh dear," exclaimed Hannah, "I shall
be so glad to get away !"
"Yes, because you are nearly well, and
will be able to take your place directly; but
I, you know, I have nobody near belonging
to me, and I can't think of being a burden
to any one, though nobody can be a kinder
friend than Ellen -Swain."
"Ah! that's she you used to lodge with,"
said the other carelessly; and something com-
ing to interrupt them, the conversation



One of the chief subjects of interest amongst
the women in the convalescent room was the
sad case of a poor little boy, who had been
brought into the hospital some days before
Phoebe came there, on having met with a
dreadful accident in the mill in which he was
working, by which his leg was so seriously
injured, that the surgeons had found it neces-
sary to take it off immediately. There had
happened at the time of his admission to be
a woman in the hospital who knew the poor
boy, from having lived in the same court
with his parents, and who could, therefore,
tell a good deal about him; and this, of course,
had made her anxious to learn all she could
of his case from the nurse who attended upon
him. The account she heard was not very
satisfactory. The nurse had described him as
having borne the operation with great cour-
age--"like a man," as she said, "without
shedding a tear, or giving way under the

26 PH(EBE; OR,

worst pain." All this sounded well; but he
had been throughout sullen and discontented:
his misfortune seemed to harden his heart, so
that he turned away from words of kindness,
and appeared only anxious to be unnoticed,
showing especial annoyance when people ex-
pressed before him the pity and compassion
which all must feel for a child under such
circumstances. This frame of mind injured
his health, and at first even threatened his
life. However, in spite of it, he was now
considered out of danger, and was slowly re-
covering. These particulars Phoebe gathered
from a conversation between her friend Mary
Grey and the woman before-mentioned, both
of whom made many natural reflections on the
sad state of mind the unhappy boy seemed to
be in.
"Such a trouble must be bad indeed to
bear," said Mary, if he does not know Who
sends it to him."


There it is," said her companion; then
lowering her voice for Mary alone to hear,
-" One does not like to speak against one's
neighbors, but the truth is, he was ill taught
before he came here. He has no mother of
his own, poor thing, and was sent to the
mills before he was fit for it, by his step-
mother, who thought him an incumbrance
that she would get rid of as soon as she
"Poor thing 1" said Mary; and what will
become of him now, when he is likely to be
an incumbrance all his life ?"
In the mean time Phoebe was improving
in her health every day, and the sense of
returning strength made her very happy,
though in the place where she had at first
felt so dreary; and no wonder: indeed, she
would have thought herself quite ungrateful
if it had been otherwise, for all the people
were kind to her, and she well knew that


every thing was done that could be done for
her comfort and amendment.
As the weather was now very mild and
fine, she was allowed to go out into the
grounds belonging to the hospital every day
about noon; and though these were not so
pretty and cheerful as the fields and nice
cottage-gardens of her own village, she quite
enjoyed the change after being so long con-
fined within doors; and as she watched the
young leaves opening out on the shrubs, and
felt the soft wind blowing upon her, the
thought that she should soon be well and be
able to return home, brought feelings of joy
that she had never known before. However,
she was not yet strong enough for much
exertion, and a little walking made her tired,
so that she was glad to turn for a rest
towards a sheltered arbour, which had been
placed for the comfort of the patients near
.the gravel-walk laid out for their exercise-



ground. She was not aware that any one
was seated there before she came close up to
it, and then she found it occupied already by
a little boy of about eleven years old. He
looked very pale, but it was not his paleness
that struck her so much as the look of
misery and wretchedness that was expressed
in his thin features. Another glance showed
her the poor mutilated limb; and she had
no doubt of its being poor Simon Milford,
of whom she had so often heard. Her first
impulse was to turn back; but her next
thought was, that he might think she shrunk
from him, and she stood still and irresolute.
He had, however, been quick to observe her
first movement, and to give the meaning to
it she had feared; and exclaiming, in a hur-
ried tone, You needn't go! I'm going my-
self!" he began hastily to feel about for his
crutches. However, he was not yet accus-
tomed to the use of them; and in his imp*,



tient tremour, let both fall to the ground, thus
leaving himself helpless. Phoebe ran to pick
them up, saying, at the same time, "There
is room enough on this great bench for us
both; but if you would rather I went away,
I will go."
"It is no matter to me," he answered,
sullenly ; however, as he made no further
attempt to rise, being, perhaps, vexed at
having to show his awkwardness before a
stranger, Phoebe sat down to rest at the other
end of the bench, and both remained silent
for some time. At length, Phoebe,, whose
mind was dwelling on his terrible misfortune,
could not help saying, "I am very sorry for
you; it must be very bad to bear."
Simon shrunk at hearing her words, and
exclaimed, hastily, "Don't speak of it; don't
look at me; I can't bear it."
"Have I vexed you ?" Phoebe answered,
timidly; "I'm sure I did not mean it."



"Every body vexes me that pities me,"
he answered; "I want nobody to take any
notice of me again as long as I live."
"IOh, you won't think so when you get
home !" exclaimed Phoebe; you are strange
here, that's the reason; but when you are
with your mother again, you'll feel happier."
I have no mother," he answered, gloomily.
"No mother !" she cried, in a tone of sor-
rowful pity.
"My mother died before I was six years
old," he continued; I've a step-mother now."
Phoebe made no answer; she was thinking
over what he had said, when he went on as if
talking to himself. "A fine nuisance I shall be
thought when I get home again. I suppose
they'll get me into the workhouse if they can."
Oh, no," cried Phoebe, they'll never be
so cruel as to send you away."
"Why, perhaps, I shall be better there
than any where else," he replied. "I sha'nt

82 PH(EBE; OR,

have all the boys staring and laughing at
me whenever I put my face out of the door,
nor see them play myself."
Oh, how can you have such thoughts !"
Phoebe exclaimed. "LNobody in the world
would laugh at such trouble as yours."
"Won't they?" he answered, with a soft
of contempt. "I know I've laughed at old
Joe Thompson's wooden leg many a time;
and what's the difference between him and
me now? no doubt they have a right to
do it."
Phoebe said nothing. There was something
in his way of talking that she did not like,
S and she was wishing for a good excuse for
going away without giving offence. Simon,
perhaps, observed the effect of what he had
been saying; for, as if defending himself, he
continued, Why, have not I enough to make
me cross and vexed ?"
"Oh, yes," she replied; "nobody knows


how they could bear such a trouble; but
you seem to like to think most of the things
that vex you; now, you know, people who
know best, say, the worst things happen for
our good."
Oh, yes," he answered, very impatiently;
"so people talk who have no trouble of
their own; but how can it be for my good
to lose my leg, and to be a helpless, useless
cripple all my life-a burden to people who
will want me out of their way ?"
Simon began his speech in anger, but as
he counted up his ill prospects and his trou-
bles, his courage gave way, and he burst into
"How I wish Mary Grey was here!" ex-
claimed Phoebe; "she would know how to
comfort you, I am sure; and I don't know
what to say. And she has troubles of her
own, though not quite like yours, yet she is
contented and thankful for every thing."



"Don't tell her of my being such a fool
here," said Simon, in alarm; "and look, they
are coming to call us in to dinner;" and, as
if glad to end the conversation, he began to
prepare himself for the painful walk.
It was a good sign, however, that he suf-
fered Phoebe to help him, by holding his
crutches till he was able to take them, and
even to mutter "thank you," when she had
done; though a good deal as if he was
ashamed of being so civil.
A day or two after this, Phoebe received
a visit from some of her friends who had
S come that morning from her own village.
They brought her a message from her mother
that she had not felt strong enough to walk
over to see her, and that her father had been
unusually busy; but she sent her love, and
a fine nosegay that the children had gathered
to show they thought of her. Phoebe's eyes
glistened at the sight of the beautiful flowers,



and at the thought of those who had gath-
ered and sent them, and still more so when
she heard the doctor tell her friends that her
mother might come for her in ten days' time,
unless she heard to the contrary; for that if
Phoebe went on as well as she had done lately,
she would be quite fit to leave the hospital by
that time.
Her visitors could not stay very long; and
when they left, Phoebe went to the garden as
usual, carrying her precious nosegay with her,
her heart quite dancing with pleasure at all the
thoughts it had brought with it. Suddenly,
however, she remembered her good friend Mary
Grey, and generously resolved to make her a
present of her beautiful flowers. It was a little
sacrifice, but one she joyfully made. And she *
turned back to find her friend. She ran up to
her on finding, her alone.
"Look here 1" she exclaimed; "here is some-
thing to do you good: smell how sweet !"-turn-


ing the violets, that clustered at the bottom of
the nosegay, towards her. "Take them-they
come fresh from our garden, and you shall have
them all."
Here she stopped short; for she saw Mary
was in tears.
"Thank you, dear," she answered; they
are very beautiful, but I won't deprive you of
"Oh, don't say so!" exclaimed Phoebe; "if
you think them pretty, pray take them."
"They are too pretty and sweet for me," said
Mary, with a sad smile: my head is so bad this
morning, that I can hardly look at any thing,
and the sweet scent seems too much for me.
Look, I will take these nice fresh primroses, and
thank you for them, and you shall keep the
S rest. Why, they seem to have done you good
already: I never saw you with such a colour;
and I am sure you are nothing like so thin as
when you first came in."


Oh, no," answered Phoebe, "I feel so differ-
ent; and I'm to leave next Saturday but one,
and go home again to them all. But oh, Mary,
I shall be sorry to leave you, and so ill as you
seem just now. I thought you were a great
deal better." And the tears came into her eyes.
I shall leave at the same time," said Mary;
"and I am better, only my head aches just now."
"And where will you go?" asked Phoebe:
"is it anywhere where I can come to see you
some times ?"
"No, my dear, I am afraid not," said Mary;
and, for a moment, a flush came over her face
as she continued, I have no home to go to like
yours, and I am not strong enough yet to work
for my living: I shall have to go to the poor-
Ah, and it is that that makes you cry," said
Phoebe, sorrowfully; "I am so sorry."
Yes, my dear, I can't help taking it a little
to heart more than I ought; for I dare say I


shall have as kind treatment there as here, and
it is God's will that I should be destitute. I
wish to feel thankful that there is such a shelter
for me."
Phoebe's mind wandered to what she had
heard from Hannah, and a thought suddenly
struck her; and, lowering her voice, she said,
Hannah Sanders will be here very soon-I
saw her coming this way: don't let her see you
have been crying; she will think it is about
something quite different."
"What will she think ?" said Mary, with
some curiosity.
Phoebe felt she had gone too far, and would
have gladly been silent; but Mary urged her,
and soon drew from her the gossip that had
passed within her hearing.
It seemed to move Mary, for a few moments,
a good deal; but soon she spoke very calmly:
Hannah Sanders was quite mistaken about
me. My illness would have come upon me



just the same if I had been in the greatest
prosperity and with every thing I could desire
about me; and nothing else has had to do
with it."
Oh, then it's all a mistake about William
Johnson. I'm so glad !" cried Phoebe.
"It is all a mistake, I think, about William
Johnson being the sort of person she fancies,"
answered Mary; but it is better you should
not think of such foolish gossip, my dear: and
you will do me a kindness to bring me a shet
of paper from my box, as I want to write a
Phoebe soon got the paper, pen, and ink; and
after she had seen that the pen would mark and
the ink was not too thick, she followed her ori-
ginal intention, and set off with her flowers for
a walk in the grounds, leaving Mary to herself,
as she saw she desired to be.
It cost Mary some trouble to write; for her
head ached, and the subjects of her letter were


painful to her: but she knew it must be done,
and had best be done soon. It was to her
friend Ellen Swain, in answer to one she had
received from her that morning, and was as
"DEAR ELLEN,-Thank you for your letter,
which has been a great comfort to me at a time
I wanted comfort. As for myself, though there
has been no great change, yet I fancy myself
better, rather than worse. I pressed Dr. B--
to tell me what he thought of my case, and
hoped he would be quite plain with me; and he
said he thought the worst of my illness was
over; but he could not tell how long it would
be before I can hope to be well and strong; at
the best, he says, I shall mend but slowly, and
I shall not be able to take to my work again for
a good while. It is about this that I wish to
write to you, dear Ellen, and to tell you that I
have made up my mind to go into the poor-
house. I can never be grateful enough to you



and your kind husband for wishing to take in a
poor ailing creature as I am, and tq do for me
and provide for me till I get better; the tears
come into my eyes when I think of it; but you
have children of your own, and I should be
glad to think that you were laying up for them
what little you could spare against an evil day
-though long may it be kept from you; and I
believe it would be a'weight on me, that would
prevent my getting well, to feel myself a burden,
though well I know you would not think me
one. I won't deny that it has been a struggle
to me to submit to this; but surely it is God's
will: and I am ashamed of my proud heart,
which made the thought hard to bear at first;
but it is so no longer, and I feel far happier to
have made up my mind.
There was but one part of your letter that
troubled me: it was the anger you express
against William Johnson. I can't explain his
conduct any more than you; but I will always



believe that some mistake is at the bottom of his
change, though we may never know what it is.
We both have known him from a boy, and how
good and steady he always was. Is it likely he
should turn bad all at once? It would be
worse than any thing that has happened to me
to have to think it. And having said this, dear
Ellen, you would confer a great kindness on
me never to name the subject to me again. I
am quite sure it does harm to talk much on
such matters; and it is for the good of my body,
and mind too, to keep my thoughts as calm and
peaceful as I can: and if I do but learn to set
my mind on right things, then every thing that
happens to me-trouble, or sickness, or sorrow
-will be all for my good.
I am to leave this place Saturday week: it
is a bad day for you to leave home upon; yet I
think you will be so good as to come for me
here, and walk with me to the union-house at
once. I should not know what to say to the


gentlemen by myself. My kind love to your
husband and the children.
"Your affectionate friend,
In the mean while Phoebe took her walk in
the grounds, and when tired went to rest in the
arbour. She had not been there long when
Simon came up, a little disconcerted, perhaps,
to see her, but not enough to make him turn
back; so he took his seat in silence at the other
end of the bench. Phoebe, too, was silent, for
their last conversation had made her afraid of
him; so she smelt her nosegay and examined
the different flowers that she might seem to
have something to do. The nosegay was
certainly well worth looking at, for its own
beauty as well as for the thoughts it brought
along with it. High above all the rest were a
profusion of daffodils, fresh and bright, sur-
rounded by dark rich-smelling wall-flowers;
next came wild anemones, primroses, southern-


s ^.

44 PH(EBE; OR,

wood, and, what Phoebe prized much, Aome"
deep-edge polyanthus; and clustering at the
bottom, choice double daisies, and violets, blue
and white, sweeter than all the rest.
Those are nice flowers," said Simon at last,
to Phoebe's great surprise, for she did not think
he would care for them.
"Yes," said she, gladly; "should you like to
have some ?" and she placed them in his hand.
He gladly took them, and buried his face
among the flowers, as if eager to breathe in their
sweetness. At length he said: It is long
since I held such a nosegay in my own hand: it
makes me think of when I was quite a little
fellow, and used to go into the fields and bring
home as many daffodils as my two hands would
hold. We lived in the country then."
"There are not many fields of daffodils," said
"There was one at Marsden, however," he


S "Why, Marsden!" cried Phoebe; "that is
close where we live. I did not know we had
been neighbours."
"Ah it's a long while ago," said Simon,
sighing. "Mother was alive then; and I often
can't think I am the same boy I was when she
used to take me to church with her, and teach
me to say my prayers; and when I used to play
about the lanes and garden."
And why did you leave such a nice place ?"
asked Phoebe.
"Father thought we should do better," he
replied, in a town, and that there would be
work for the children; so we came to N -
But it was a bad change, as it happened; for
mother was never strong, and she got worse
in the town, and died in less than a year."
Oh, what a loss for you!" cried Phoebe,
in a compassionate tone. 0
".You may well say so," he answered,
gloomily. Every thing has gone wrong


since; and worst of all with me. For my
father soon married again; and she never took
to me. She was not like my mother, but
sharp and cross; and I vexed her by some
things I said, and so she has never liked me.
And father takes notice of what she says
against me, as I don't deny I may sometimes
try to provoke her by talking how differently
my own mother treated me. But I did not
mind while I was able to work; for I knew I
should earn more every year, and could soon
take care of myself; it is different now !" His
voice faltered as he spoke. But," said he,
rousing himself, all this has come of these
flowers, which made me think of Marsden. It
is odd that you should know the place."
It is not a mile from our house," she an-
swered; and I often go there with mother."
EJ is led to their recalling together all the
, people at Marsden that both knew; and ig
such talk, and the pleasure of going back to



the happiest and best part of his life, Simon
was more cheerful than he had been for many
a day. It was a subject, too, that opened
Phoebe's little heart to him; and she talked
away, and found herself in full description of
the sports of next May-day, before she reflected
that such a subject might be rather a sad one to
him. He would not let her stop, however,
though he understood her thought; for he
liked to be reminded of all that happened at
those merry times, which he could hardly
recollect by himself. But together they could
go through it all, from the day before, the last
day of April, when all the flowers that could
be found in field and garden were gathered,
and laid by in water for the next morning, to
the happy moment when the last flower was
placed on the garland by the cleverest and
most experienced of the party. Then botf
related together how the May-morning was
'spent in going from house to house to display



the beautiful garland, while they sung the May-
day song, and collected from all the neighbours
who were kind enough to contribute halfpence
to their little feast.
"And you forget church in the morning,"
said Phoebe.
I don't think they went to church at Mars-
den," said Simon.
"Oh, but they do with us. And Mr. Os-
borne, our clergyman, likes to see us there.
He says holidays are given that we may be
happy, and thank God for it; and May-day is
one of the holidays in the Prayer-book,* and
that is why we keep May-day."
Simon sighed. "Mother used to take me
to church while she lived; and I used to like
to go with father afterwards; but since he
married again, he has not cared to go like what
he used to do; he says he's tired, and lies in

It is called there St. Philip's and St. James'-day.



bed on Sunday morning; and so I have not
been either."
"What, don't you go to church on Sun-
day ?" cried Phoebe. "Oh I that is very
wrong of you. Why. don't you go to the
Sunday-school, and go along with all the other
boys ?"
"Well, father always talked of sending me.
But the boys in our yard used to go out in the
fields, and I went with them; and we used
to have fine fun sometimes, such as I can
never have again. But if ever I heard the
church-bells ringing, though we were ever so
merry, the thought of my mother holding my
hand, as she used to do, and taking me to
church, used to come into my mind, and take
away all the pleasure. And often and often
I would have left them all, and walked off to
church at once, only I was afraid they would
laugh at me; and so I was ashamed."
"That was a pity," said Phoebe, very


seriously; and she was silent for a few mo-
ments. Then, in a timid tone, she said: I
should like to tell you what I have been think-
ing about; but will you be angry ?"
"I don't know what it is," he replied, with a
faint smile; but I'll try not."
"Well, I have been thinking this," she an-
swered: "that though yours is such a very bad
misfortune, yet there is one thing that may be
good in it. You can't go out now with those
naughty boys who laugh at people for being
good, and perhaps you will go to church
Well, but I could have gone to church if I
had liked before," he replied.
Yes, but then you did not like, and now
perhaps you will. Those boys won't be such a
temptation to you. You will like to keep out
of their way. And besides, when you are at
church, you will hear about heaven, and you
will like to hear of it, and will get not to mind



your troubles here, so you can get there at
"I have thought so little about right things,"
said Simon, with a sigh, that I seem hardly to
understand you. But I do believe that I
should be much happier if such thoughts were
in my mind. Only, what am I to do? I should
not know where to begin."
Phoebe could not tell him exactly: she knew
she was too young to be able to give advice.
But they both continued talking some time
longer. It did Simon good to open his mind
and heart, as he did then; and though Phoebe
was too little to be a teacher, yet he could see
by every word she said that she was a good
little girl, anxious to do and say what was
right. Simon began to be sorry he had said
some of the things he had before her, and
feared she would dislike him for it; for he saw
how different her ways of thinking were from
what his had been. He felt anxious she should

52 PH(EBE; OR,

think more favourably of him; and though this
was not a very high motive, it was a worthier
one than had moved him amongst his old bad
companions; so that he really was in a better
frame of mind after the conversation than
before, though there was danger of the im-
provement not lasting long.
Phoebe told Mary Grey what they had been
talking of, which she listened to with kind
interest. Phoebe wished she would talk to
Simon; but Mary promised to do a better
thing, and mention him to Mr. Day, the clergy-
man of the hospital, who was very constant in
his attendance, and was particularly kind to
Mary. Simon had always shown himself so
dull and stupid to this gentleman, for fear he
should begin to talk to him on a subject he
dreaded, that he had never been able to get at
his feelings; but when Mary told him what she
knew, he was glad to make a further attempt,
and this time with better success, for the poor


boy was in a more humble frame of mind, glad
of instruction, and ready to receive it. And
though he still continued to grieve and fret
over his misfortune, and look with dread to-
wards his future life, it was not in a sullen or
discontented spirit. He was weak and helpless,
and without friends to care much for him; and
we cannot wonder that his spirits should be
borne down, and that he should feel sad and
depressed. But in the midst of his troubles he
listened to what Mr. Day said to him, was at-
tentive at prayers, and did his best to under-
stand what he heard and read; and was so
much more civil and thankful for the kindness
he received and the attention that was paid to
him, that the good nurse was quite delighted
in the change.
Meantime the important Saturday was ap-
proaching. Phoebe felt so well that she was
glad to be allowed to make herself useful in
doing little errands for the nurse, or helping



Mary in her sewing for the house; for Mary,
though often a great sufferer, was always glad
to do what she could to assist when at all able
to do so. At these times, when they were
sitting comfortably together, Phoebe used to do
her best to amuse Mary, and make her forget,
what she never could quite forget herself, that
her kind friend had rather a sad prospect
before her; and that the day of parting, which
would bring so much pleasure to Phoebe, would
be sad indeed to Mary.
At last it came. Phoebe was busy early in
the morning making up her little bundle of
clothes, before her mother came for her, that
then she might have nothing to do but take
leave of her many friends in the hospital; for
she had been such a good, obliging child, that
she was a general favourite. Mary, too, had her
preparations to make, and then quietly sat
down to expect Ellen Swain, still busy with
some needlework the nurse had given her to


do, and glad to keep mind, as well as body, as
quiet and calm as possible. Phoebe, too, every
now and then sat down by her; but she was
too restless to settle for more than five minutes
in any one place.
I should like you to see Mother," she began,
" if only she comes for me; and Mother must
see Simon, because he used to live quite close
by our village. I'll just go and see if any
body's come yet."
And so saying, she ran, for the sixth time at
least, to peep down the staircase, and see if there
were any arrivals in the lobby below. A
people were there, though none she recognized. V
But the porter caught sight of her:-" Here,
you little girl, can you tell Mary Grey she's
wanted? Here's a young man just come for
Phoebe flew back with her message.
"A young man ?" said Mary. "It must be
Ellen's brother. I wish she could have come

i h



herself: but I knew it was an inconvenient day
for her."
And she stepped down stairs at once, accom-
panied by Phoebe, to tell her guide she would
get ready as quickly as possible. They had
nearly reached the bottom of the stairs, and
Phoebe's eyes had wandered off in search of
new arrivals, when she felt her companion
catch hold of her arm, as if to support her-
self. "O0 Mary, you are ill!" cried Phoebe,
observing that her countenance had changed;
but then following the direction of her eyes,
she observed a person advancing hastily to-
wards them, exclaiming, "0 Mary, here you
are at last!" Her short answer, "William,
how did you come here?" explained it all
to Phoebe. It was William Johnson himself,
looking so glad and so sorry, so overjoyed to
see Mary again, and so grieved to find her in
such a place, thin and pale, and altered; that
in the confusion of such feelings he could do



nothing to exhlan why he was there, nor why
he had delayed coming so long. After the first
moment, however, Mary looked perfectly calm
and composed, though Phoebe could still feel
her hand tremble. "I expected Ellen Swain,".
she continued; "I am sorry you should, have
come here."
"Sorry I should have come !" he exclaimed.
"Why, who should help you but me ?"
Do not speak so loud," said Mary. "See,
those people are looking at us."
Well, well, never mind them," he answered
hastily, lowering his voice, however, at the
same time. "Ellen Swain will be here di-
rectly. I only ran on and got here a few
minutes before her, for she has her baby to
carry. She and I have talked over this mis-
take together, and found out how it all hap-
pened. It has made me a great deal more
miserable than ever it has made you, I am
afraid; but if ever I can find the heap of letters


I have written to you, that through Ellen
Swain's change of house you never got, (more
shame to tha blundering of those that kept
them,) I'll make you read them for a punish-
S ,ment. Thank you for that smile; it makes
you look more like what you used to do; but
you are better, Mary, really better, Mary, are
you not? I wish you did not look so thin;
but we'll get you better," he continued, hope-
fully. "Come, where is your bonnet, that we
may set off? Ellen will be here by the time
you are ready."
"Oh, but, William, do you know where we
are to go ?" cried Mary. "Did Ellen tell you?"
"Why, to her house, to be sure," he ex-
claimed: "where else?"
"Oh, no," she answered; "Ellen knows that
I intend to go to the union."
"The union 0 Mary 1-but however," he
added, swallowing as if to get rid of some pain-
ful feeling, "when Ellen comes, you will see



that we have settled all about it. Trust hb if
you won't trust me. 0 Mary! indeed it is
my fault that you have been left poor and des-
titute altthis while; only come and I will ex-
plain all to you, if only we can get out of this
Don't speak in that way, please," said Mary,
" of a place that has been a kind home to me so
long. I can never be thankful enough for what"
has been done for me here."
And I am thankful too," said William,
" and grateful to those who have helped you;
only just now I seem hardly to know what I
At this moment Ellen Swain entered, carry-
ing her great baby, which would have been an
excuse for a longer delay. She greeted Mary
with an affectionate smile before they were near
enough to speak, and soon they fell into an
earnest whispered conversation, in which Wil-
liam seemed to feel he had better not join. He

P6t0BE: OR,

stood by, looking rather anxious and impatient,
until Mary at length observed it, and, turning
to him, said, as if finishing her conversation,
"Well, then, I will come-I won't keep you
long;" and she returned with Phoebe up stairs.
Phoebe had heard most of what had passed, and
had wondered within herself how quiet and
composed Mary seemed. She did not seem so
happy as she expected; however, she could not
help saying, Well, I am glad you are not
going to the union; are not you, Mary ?"
"Do not speak to me, please, dear," said
Mary, hastily; "I am not fit for talking just
Well, but, Mary, you are happier than you
were; you are glad, are you not ?"
"Yes, yes, I believe so," answered Mary.
"Yes, I am sure, more happy than you can
think; but do not make me speak of it, or else,
perhaps, I shall cry, and you would not wish
that;" and she turned away to tie on her bon-



net. "Phoebe, dear," she said, a minute or two
after, I don't know when I may see you again,
but I hope some time, if I get better; we must
not forget one another."
"Oh, no, I shall never forget you," cried
Phoebe, jumping up to kiss her. At this mo-
ment in walked Phoebe's mother, who, as so
often happens, took her by surprise at last, after
having been watched for all the morning. It
was a pleasure to witness their meeting-such
happiness at seeing one another again! such joy
at Phoebe's improved looks! "And you have
been kind to my child, I know," said the
mother to Mary at the first pause. This led
to a short pleasant conversation, and a promise
that on the first good opportunity which of-
fered, Phoebe should come over some market-
day and pay Mary a visit at Ellen Swain's.
By this time Mary was ready. "And your
father's below, child, waiting to see you," said
the mother, 4o we can all go down together ;"


and so they did, Phcebe insisting on carrying
Mary's basket and umbrella, which she con-
signed to William Johnson, as he stood at the
bottom of the stairs ready to receive his charge,
and smiling most good-naturedly on Phoebe,
because she seemed so fond of Mary. Mary,
accompanied by Ellen,-had to leave them for a
minute or two, to receive the doctor's last in-
structions, and to offer her warm thanks to him,
and every one, for past kindness; and when
this was over, and she had given Phoebe a kiss,
she was ready to take William's arm; and turn-
ing her head for one last look at the great hall,
and bestowing one sweet happy smile upon
Phoebe, who stood watching her departure, the
door closed behind them. "0 mother! I do
think she will be happy," cried Phoebe; "but
I am afraid she will have a bad headache, too,"
she added, as she watched them from the
window; for look how fast William is making
her walk, while he is talking toaer, and does



not think about it. Ah, there she is telling
him, I dare say, that she is not so strong as he
is-oh, no, she is waiting for Ellen Swain to
come up; and now they are going slowly, as
they should do. Mother, do you like William
Johnson ?"
I never saw him before, child," answered
her mother. "How should I like him?"
"Was that William Johnson ?" said her
father; "is he a stone-mason by trade?"
"Yes," said Phoebe.
"Well, then, I knew him when they were
doing the repairs of our church; he was a
good lad then, and took good care of his
mother when she was left with nobody else
to take care of her; and he that was a good
son will be a good husband, I make no doubt
of it, and that is better that trusting to
looks, though his are not against him."
"Mother," said Phoebe, "when we go, you .
and fattlerlif c6me with me to say good-


64 PH(EBE; OR,

by to Simon;" and then she explained who
Simon was, and where he had lived, and his
sad misfortune. Presently all preparations
were made, and Phcebe's parents had ex-
pressed their gratitude and thanks for the
benefit their child had received, and heard
the nurse's good report of her in return, as
an obedient, tractable child. Having quitted
the house, they all turned down the walk in
search of Simon, whom they knew to be out
in the air. He looked very melancholy as
Phoebe approached him, for he knew she
came to say good-by, so that she felt half
ashamed of being so happy when he was so
sad; but he was not sullen now as formerly,
and was ready and glad to answer all Mrs.
Freeman's kind questions about himself. To
her surprise she found that his mother had
been an old friend of hers, who had once
lived in service with her. This made her
feel a peculiar interest in hele~ild, though


at any time she would have felt compassion
for a poor boy under such circumstances;
and she lingered talking, and asking ques-
tions, and expressing regrets, till her husband
warned her that they must not stay. At this,
moment, however, Mr. Day came up with a
gentleman, whom Simon recognized as Mr.
Wilson, his employer in the mill where his
accident had happened. This gentleman had
been from home at the time; but on his re-
turn had come, as soon as possible, to see the
poor boy. He was a kind man, and felt
anxious, as he ought, to do what he could for
the child, whose whole prospects had been
blighted in his service. The chaplain, Mr. Day,
had given him some general account of Simon's
state, and the improvement he had observed :
since he came into the hospital, adding, how-
ever, his fear that from what he knew of his
home, especially his step-mother, who proved
a most unworthy person, this amendment'



would have little chance of continuing, under
the bad example he would see there. The
boy's father, too, had been with Mr. Wilson
arguing the same things, and professing his
inability to do any thing for his son in his
present helpless state, explaining that his wife
objected to the charge in a way that convinced
Mr. Wilson that his home would certainly be an
unhappy one if he was made to return thither.
He had just spoken of this to Mr. Day, when
they came up to where Simon was, and found
him in conversation with the Freemnans. Mrs.
Freeman was a person always to make a
favourable impression; and just now, when
her heart was full of Simon's trouble, and the
thought that her old friend's only child should
be thus unfortunate, she appeared to Mr.
Wilson just the person to have the charge of
the boy a little while, till some employment
could be fixed upon for him, if she could be
prevailed upon to undertake it. 4he doctor,


too, had spoken of country air as a great
advantage for him in his present weak state,
and this confirmed Mr. Wilson in his first
thought. He therefore entered into conversa-
tion with William Freeman, and learnt where
they lived, and other things; and then asked
if they would be willing to take charge of
Simon for a few weeks, or longer, till his health
should be sufficiently restored for him to learn
some trade suited to his present condition.
William Freeman did not like the idea at first,
and his wife was a little startled by the thought
of an additional charge; but Simon, who heard
the proposal, lookedit her with such imploring
eyes, and Phoebe, who saw what was in his
mind, seconded these with such hearte'w
promising to help both him and her mother as
much as she could, that Mrs. Freeman agreed,
only requesting Mr. Wilson to ride over. and
see their house, and way of living, before every
thing w.as settled. 'And one thing, sir, I
;: .


68 PH(EBE; OR,
must make a point of," said William Freeman,
--"if the boy comes to my house, while he
stays I must have as much control over him
as I have over my own children, and I should
wish him to understand this.
Simon, who knew that he had not always
been a boy that Freeman would like to have
under his roof, here promised very humbly that
if they would take him, he would be obedient,
and do all he could to be as little trouble as
"It is not the trouble I shall -mind," said
Mrs. Freeman; "there is sure to be some of
that with a poor child, crippled as he is. One
ought not to grudge that for a motherless
chilt; but I can't keep him unless he is con-
formable and well-behaved, which as this good
gentle a~dt curtseyingg to the chaplain) speaks i
good word for him, I hope he will be."
Simon looked brighter and happier after this
decision than Phoebe had ever seen hir Who

would have thought," she whispered to him,
"that you would help us to make our May-gar-
lands, after all?"
"Yes," he added, "and I believe I shall
know where to look for the flowers, though it
is so long ago; and I shall be able to go about
then, for I can use my crutches a great deal
better than I did that first day, when I was so
cross, and had nearly sent you away from me.
I said then that nobody could help me, and
nobody could do me any good; I hope I shall
never have such bad thoughts again; for how
kind every body has been to me, and how happy
I feel at this minute, in spite of these things,"
said he, smiling, as he shook his crutches, "that
I thought I should never bear the sight of."




Published andfor Sale by the


Depository No. 20 John street, New York.

THE PRIZE; or, The Preciousness of a Meek
and Quiet Spirit.

MAURICE FAVELL; or, The Singing Lessons.

THE PRIMROSES; or, The Elder Sisters.

THE FRIENDS. A Tale for the Young.

University of Florida Home Page
© 2004 - 2010 University of Florida George A. Smathers Libraries.
All rights reserved.

Acceptable Use, Copyright, and Disclaimer Statement
Last updated October 10, 2010 - - mvs