"Do give it to me, then," said Lizzie, and she snatched it from her with such violence that the cover came off. The apples rolled out and fell in the water, the bread and cake followed, and the pie rolled in the dirt.

Carrie was not to blame for the accident, but Lizzie did not stop to think of this. Vexed at thus having lost her dinner, she turned and gave her little sister a push, and then walked on as rapidly as possible. Oh! could she have foreseen the consequences of this rash act, and known the bitter anguish which it would afterwards cause her, worlds would not have tempted her to do it. But Lizzie was angry. Carrie was seated just on the edge of the stone and she fell into the water. It was not deep. She had waded there many a day with her shoes and stockings off, and she could easily get out again; but it frightened her very much, and took

She

could not even call to her sister nor cry. A strange feeling came over her such as she had never felt before. She laid her head on the stone, closed her eyes, and thought she was going to die; and she wished her mother was there. Then she seemed to sleep for a few minutes; but by-and-by she felt better, and getting up, she took her empty basket and walked on as fast as she was able towards school. It was nearly half done when she arrived there, and as she entered the room all noticed her pale face and wet dress. She took her seat, and, placing her book before her, leaned her aching head upon her hand and attempted to study; but in vain. She could not fix her attention at all. The strange feeling began to come over her once more; the letters all mingled together; the room grew dark; the shrill voice of a little child screaming its A B C grew fainter and fainter; her head sunk upon her book and she fell to the floor. Fainting was so unusual in the school that all was instantly confusion, and it was some minutes before the teacher could restore order. Carrie was

Oh!

brought to the air; two of her companions were despatched for water, and none were allowed to remain near excepting Lizzie, who stood by trembling from head to foot and almost as white as the insensible object before her. what a moment of anguish was this-deep, bitter anguish! Her anger melted away at once, and she would have almost sacrifieed her own life to have recalled the events of the morning. But that was impossible. The future, howThe future, however, was still before her, and she determined never to indulge her temper or be unkind to any one. If Carrie only recovered, the future would be spent in atoning for her past unkindness. It seemed for a short time, indeed, as if she would be called upon to fulfil these promises. Carrie gradually grew better, and in about an hour was apparently as well as usual. It was judged best, however, for her to return home, and a neighbour, who happened to be passing, kindly offered to take her.

Lizzie could not play with the girls as usual; she could not study; her heart was very full, and she was impatient to be once more at

her sister's side. Oh! how eagerly she watched the sun in his slow progress round the school-house, and when at last he threw his slanting beams through the west window she was the first to obey the joyful signal, and books, papers, pen, and ink instantly disappeared from her desk. Lizzie did not linger on her way home. She even passed the "half-way stone" with no other notice than a deep sigh. She hurried to her sister's bedside, impatient to make up by every little attention for her unkindness. Carrie was asleep. Her face was no longer pale, but flushed with a burning fever. Her little hands. were hot, and as she tossed restlessly about on her pillow she would mutter to herself, sometimes calling on her sister to "stop, stop," and then again begging her not to throw her to the fishes. Lizzie watched long in agony for her to awake. This she did at last, but it brought no relief to the distressed sister and friends. She did not know them, and continued to talk incoherently about the events of the morning. It was too much for Lizzie to bear; she retired to her own little room and wept till she could weep no

more. By the first dawn of light she was by her sister's bedside; but there was no alteration.

For three days Carrie continued in this state. I would not if I could describe the agony of Lizzie as she heard herself thus called upon and reproached by the dear sufferer. Her punishment was indeed greater than she could bear. At the close of the third day Carrie showed signs of returning consciousness-inquired if the cold water which she drank would injure her, recognised her mother, and anxiously called out for Lizzie. She had just stepped out, but was immediately informed of this. Oh! how joyful was the summons! She hastened to her sister, who, as she approached, looked up and smiled. The feverish flush was gone from her cheek; she was almost deadly pale. By her own request her head had been raised on two or

three pillows, and her little ema

ciated hands were folded over the white coverlid. Lizzie was entirely overcome; she could only weep; and as she stooped to kiss her sister's white lips, the child threw her arms around her neck and drew her still nearer. her still nearer. It was a long embrace-then her arms moved convulsively and fell motionless by her side; there were a few struggles, she gasped once or twice-and little Carrie never breathed again.

Days and weeks and months rolled on. Time had somewhat healed the wound which grief for the loss of an only sister had made; but it had no power to remove from Lizzie's heart the remembrance of her former unkindness, which poisoned many an hour. She never took her little basket of dinner, now so light, or in her solitary walk to school passed the "half-way stone," without a deep sigh and often a tear of bitter regret.

OME, go with

us for chest

nuts, John," said one of a

group of not

very well dressed boys to John Miles, as he sat at the door of the small one-storey house in which he lived. "I wish I could go," replied John.

66

Why can't you? What have you to do?" said the boy.

"Come on, then what is to hinder you from going?

"Mother said I must not go away anywhere till she came home."

"When is she coming home?" "She said she should be home before sunset."

"We shall be back an hour before the sun is down, so come on; she will never know it."

"That don't make any difference; she told me I must not go.' "Oh, very well; if the old woman said you must not go you can't go,

John.

you

must mind her. Come on," said he to the group who had stood listening to the conversation; "John can't go; he is afraid his mother will whip him." And with a shout of derision they passed on.

"I am not afraid she will whip me," said John; but the boys had passed out of hearing and were boasting to one another of their freedom from what they called "petticoat government."

John felt

uncomfortable after they had gone. He felt lonesome; but he was not to blame for that. He felt ashamed to have it thought that he was afraid his mother would whip him; and for this he was to blame. He had scarcely noticed the contemptuous manner in which the rude boy spoke of his mother, and for that he was to blame. Affection for his mother and regard for the right were not strong enough within him to enable him to resist the ridicule of a vulgar and wicked boy.

John's mother was a widow. His father died when he was an infant; yet such was the excellence of his mother, such her care of him, that he had never felt the want of a father. She had nursed him in

sickness and amused him in health, and toiled to supply all his necessities. Often while he slept she sat by his bedside and worked with her needle till twelve, one, and even two, o'clock in the morning, that her son might not suffer for lack of food, and clothing, and instruction. John was affectionate and obedient: why was it that he was made uncomfortable by the few words of ridicule thrown upon him in connection with his mother?

When his mother came home towards evening she found John sitting on the fence in front of the house, knocking his heels slowly against the boards, and whistling a melancholy air and looking quite unhappy. When she came up to him and gave him one of those smiles which exhibit the fulness of a mother's affection, there was no smile on his lips in return.

"Are you sick, my dear?" said

she.

John shook his head, and after a while answered, "No."

"Come into the house, and let me tell you whom I have seen, and what I have heard."

John got down slowly from the fence and came in. His manner