"Yes, dear; he sent for us, and we moved here. And now, if you should like it, you shall see Willy, and kiss him; and then you must try to sleep.'

He was anxious to stop there; and he took the most effectual method of checking his wife's waking memory, by mentioning her boy.

"Yes, O yes, let me see my child."

The little fellow, carefully obeying his father's directions, came in slowly, on tiptoe, and went up to his mother. She held him back an instant, and looked like one whose eyes are dazzled, as the returning light of a mother's memory shone on the form and face of her child. Poor Willy could bear it no longer.

"Mother! dear mother! I love you. Don't you know me? It's Willy- your own boy," he sobbed out, and nestled his head into her bosom.

Tears, blessed tears, came to the relief of the poor mother, as she pressed the child to her heart. Alas! around that unutterable joy, as it again took its place in her awakened memory, clustered so many terrible thoughts! Her husband feared this moment, and had planned various ways of meeting it;

but they were all defeated, and a better way found out, by the untaught, artless address of a loving child.

"Do not cry any more, mother, now; get well directly, mother. Father told me this morning that he never, never would leave you, nor me, while he lived. He says if you only get well we will all live together and try to be good and happy; and I have been wanting to get into your room ever since and tell you of it, for I knew that would make you well."

Thus did the angel hand of her own sweet innocent child suddenly lift up the veil which had so mercifully for her been dropped over the terrible past; and it seemed as if the darkness and dreariness of the scene were dissipated by the heavenly light that shone from the countenance of the unconscious little being, who had thus rendered of no avail the councils of his elders.

"Is it so, William? Am I again a wife, and a mother? Now I remember all."

"It is so," said her husband, "but be still now, say nothing more. The rest of our lives may redeem the past. Only get well, as Willy says."

Gently he disengaged the child from her

arms and led him out of the room, and her kind nurse closed the curtains, and, exhausted with her emotions, Fanny fell asleep. At the first motion she made when she awoke, the nurse was by her side offering her some refreshment after sleep.

"You are Mrs. Hawkins," said Fanny. "Yes, ma'am I am," answered the nurse. "And is it you that have watched by me night and day during my long illness, taking no rest yourself?"

"God has given me strength to do my duty, and I thank him for it."

"I have never deserved anything at your hands, and you have been as kind to me as if you had been my mother."

"I have only done what I ought to do." "But your tenderness, and kindness-I had no right to it."

"Yes you had, for you were a great sufferer and I was able to help you."

"But I had sinned against you," said Fanny, as the tears rolled down her face. "I had laughed at your appearance, I had nicknamed you."

"You hurt yourself more than you did me by that. I know, I am an odd-looking person. I pitied you, and so I helped to nurse you."

"Do you always return good for evil?" "When I can."

"Did you not despise me when I was so

"I despise no human being.”

"You puzzle me; you seem so contented and yet have nothing to enjoy; what makes you so satisfied?"

"A quiet conscience, and the pleasure I find in doing the work that God gives me to do. He gives us all our work."

"What work do you think he has given to you?"

"The care of the sick."

"And are you not wearied and disheartened with this work sometimes?"

"Never."

"Do you not hope some day to rest from these hard labors, and enjoy your own time, and the recollection of how much good you have done?

"Yes, in heaven."

"I have been very unjust to you," said Fanny; "I ought to have reverenced your self-devotion, and loved you instead of laughing at you."

"Love can't be forced," answered the housekeeper.

"Will you forgive me for all my injustice to you?"

"With all my heart," replied Mrs. Hawkins.

"You say," said Fanny, who was irresistibly induced to talk to her new friend, as she considered her, "you say God gives to all their work; what work do you think he has given me?"

"It is a part of the duty of a child to find out his father's wishes, and ask of him what is his work. Each one must answer that question for himself. You have great means, and can do much."

"I am very grateful to you for all your kindness to me," said Fanny with a trembling voice," and most of all for pardoning my injustice and rudeness towards you."

"I do not want people to feel grateful to me," answered Mrs. Hawkins.

"You mean that you would rather be loved than be thanked; your own heart must be full of love to have watched by me, and labored and suffered for my relief and comfort, when I deserved nothing but blame at your hands; and I shall, I will, I do love you, my good and kind, and forgiving friend. You will let me love you."