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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 troubles, his courage gave way, and he burst into tears.

“ How I wish Mary Grey was here !” exclaimed 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 suffered Phæbe to help him, by holding his crutches till he was able to take them, and even to inutter "thank you,” when she had done; though a good deal as it he was ashamed of being so civil.

A day or two after this, Phæbe received a visit from some of her friends who had 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 shew they thought of her. Phæbe's eyes glistened at the sight of the beautiful flowers, and at the thought of those who had gathered 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 Phæbe 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, Phæbe went to the garden as usual, carrying her precious nosegay with her, her heart quite - if you

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.

6. Look here!” she exclaimed; “ here is something to do you good: smell how sweet!”-turning 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 them.”

" Oh, don't say so !” exclaimed Phæbe; 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 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 Phæbe, “I feel so different; 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 Phæbe; “is it anywhere where I can come to see you sometimes?''

No, my dear, I am afraid not,” said Mary; and, for a moment, a Aush came over her face as

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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-house."

Åh, 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 daresay 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. 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 John

I'm so glad !” cried Phæbe. “ 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 sheet of paper from my box, as I want to write a letter.

Phæbe 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 original in

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son.

tention, and set off with her flowers for a walk in the grounds, leaving Mary to herself, as she saw sbe 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 follows:

“ 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 to 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 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.

could spare

was,

“ 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

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 harın 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 metrouble, 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. 6. Your affectionate friend,

“ MARY GREY." [To be continued.]

When the Princess Anna (daughter of King Charles I.) lay upon her death-bed, and nature was almost spent, she was desired by one of the attendants to pray. She said that she was not able to say her long prayer, meaning the Lord's Prayer; but she would say her short one—“ Lighten mine eyes, O Lord, that I sleep not in death.” The little innocent had no sooner pronounced these words than she expired. She was not quite four years of age.-Grainger.

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