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each to its rest.' I think one likes so much to find that another person is thinking of just the same things that we are. I mean, when they are things which one likes, things of this kind.”

Mrs. O. “It is very pleasant indeed ; and it will very often happen, when people are taught in the same way, and have the same ideas associated with the things they see. And it is more than pleasant; our own feelings are made stronger by this kind of sympathy, and it increases, too, our love to one another. And this is one of the good and happy consequences which we find in following the course of thought which the Church leads us through as the year goes on. We know that we, in our own home, and members in the Church every where, are thinking of the same things, and that so many who are gone have learned the same lessons as we are doing, at the same times of the year. And all this helps to bind us together, and to make us feel, as well as believe in, the communion of saints, which we are so especially to think of to-morrow.'

Matilda. Dear mamma, I did not think, when I asked about sweet little baby's name, that it would have led to so much. Perhaps some time, on some evening like this, we shall be telling her about it, and about the things you have been saying to us.”

Matilda had scarcely finished speaking, when the sound of carriage-wheels was plainly heard passing along at the foot of the hill, and then the shutting of the gate as the carriage turned into the garden, and the children all hastened to the hall-door to welcome the friends who were coming to the christening of little Mary.

AUSTERITY is the proper antidote to indulgence. The diseases of mind as well as body are cured by contraries; and to contraries we should readily have recourse, if we dreaded guilt as we dread pain.

227

PHEBE; OR, THE HOSPITAL.

[Continued from p. 202.] 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 Phæbe came there, on having met with a dreadful accident in the mill in which he was working, by which his leg was so dreadfully injured, that the surgeons had found it necessary 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 courage—“like a man,” as she said, " without shedding a tear, or giving way under the 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, shewing especial annoyance when people expressed 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 recovering. These particulars Phæbe gathered from a conversation between her friend Mary Grey and the woman before mentioned, who both 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,

66 One does not like to speak against one's neighbours, 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 stepmother, who thought him an incumbrance that she'd get rid of as soon as she could.”

“ Poor thing !” said Mary; " and what will become of him now, when he is likely to be an incumbrance all his life?"

In the mean time Phæbe 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 confined 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 shewed 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 hurried tone, You needn’t go! I'm going myself!” he began hastily to feel about for his crutches. However, he was not yet accustomed to the use of them; and in his impatient 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. 6 It is no matter to me,” he answered, sullenly ; however, as he made no further attempt to rise, being, perhaps, vexed at having to shew his awkwardness before a stranger, Phæbe sat down to rest at the other end of the bench, and both remained silent for some time. At length, Phæbe, 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."

66 Have I vexed you?”' Phæbe answered, timidly; 66 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.”

“Oh, you won't think so when you get home !" exclaimed Phæbe; "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 sorrowful

pity.

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“My mother died before I was six years old,” he continued ; “ I've a step-mother now.

Phæbe 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 workbouse 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 have all the boys staring and laughing at me whenever I put my face out of the door, nor see themn play myself.”

“Oh, how can you have such ihoughts!" Phæbe exclaimed. Nobody in the world would laugh at such a trouble as yours.”

“Won't they ?” he answered, with a sort 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.”

Phæbe said nothing. There was something in his way of talking that she did not like, 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

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