Chapter II: Introduction (2)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_Conversation between a Mother and her sick Child._

CHILD.

Mother, 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 scorners 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?--

MOTHER.

When Mary walk'd 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. However, about an hour after I had gone home, when I had written, and just as I was folding my letter, a carriage drove to the door, and he alighted from it. As I knew he would stay with us two or three days I was in no hurry to speak of Alice, preferring to wait till Harriet came home in the evening, and see whether she would think of interesting her grandfather in her little friend. He had been with me about two hours when I sent for her, and he told the servant who went that she need not mention his coming, for he thought it would be very pleasant to see Harriet's first joy at meeting him, when she so little expected to see him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Have you given her some yourself, Harriet?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, my love."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

B----, July 2, 18--.

MY DEAR MADAM,--

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

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

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

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

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

Yours, very thankfully,

MARTHA SCOTT."

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

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

B----, April 14, 18--.

DEAR HARRIET,--

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

ALICE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Betty told you that," said Harriet.

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

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

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

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

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

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