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gan to come over her once more; the letters all mingled together; the room grew dark; the shrill voice of the little child screaming its A B C in front of her desk, grew fainter and fainter; her head sunk upon her book, and she fell to the floor.

15. Fainting was so unusual in this school, that all was instantly confusion, and it was some minutes before the teacher could restore order. Helen was brought to the air; two of her companions were despatched for water; and none were allowed to remain near, excepting Clara, who stood by, trembling from head to foot, and almost as white as the insensible object before her. O! what a moment of anguish was this, deep, bitter anguish. Her anger melted away at once, and she would almost have sacrificed her own life, to have recalled the events of the morning. That was impossible.

16. The future, however, was still before her, and she determined never again to indulge her temper, or be unkind to any one. If Helen only recovered, the future should 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. Helen 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 farmer, who happened to pass in a new gig, very kindly offered to

take her.

17. Clara could not play with the girls as usual,she could not study. Her heart was full, and she was very impatient to be once more by her sister's side. The recesses were spent in collecting pictures, notes, and little books;-and the long study-hours were employed in printing stories. In this way she attempted to quiet that still small voice, whose secret

whispers were destroying all her happiness. O 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.

18. Clara 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 show her the curiosities she had collected, and to make up, by every little attention, for her unkindness. Helen 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.

19. Clara watched long, in agony, for her to wake. 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 Clara to bear. She retired to her own little room, and lonely bed, and wept till she could weep no more.

20. By the first dawn of light, she was at her sister's bedside; but there was no alteration. For three days, Helen continued in this state. I would not, if I could, describe the agony of Clara, as she heard herself thus called upon, and deservedly reproached by the dear sufferer. Her punishment was, indeed, greater than she could bear.

21. At the close of the third day, Helen gave signs of returning consciousness,inquired if the

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cold water which she drank would injure her,―recognised her mother, and very anxiously called for Clara. She had just stepped out, and was immediately told of this. O how joyful was the summons ! She hastened to her sister, who, as she approached, looked up and smiled. The feverish flush from her cheek was gone,-she was almost deadly pale. By her own request her head had been raised upon two or three pillows, and her little emaciated hands were folded over the white coverlet.

22. Clara 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. 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 Helen never breathed again.

23. 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 not power to remove from Clara's heart the remembrance of her former unkindness. It 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.

Children who are what Clara was, go now and be what Clara is,-mild,-amiable,obliging and pleasant to all.

THE DEAD MOTHER.

F. TOUCH not thy mother, boy-Thou canst not wake her.

C. Why, father? She still wakens at this hour.
F. Your mother's dead, my child.

C. And what is dead?

If she be dead, why then 'tis only sleeping,

For I am sure she sleeps.

Come, mother,-rise

Her hand is very cold!

F. Her heart is cold.

Her limbs are bloodless, would that mine were so!
C. If she would waken, she should soon be warm.
Why is she wrapt in this thin sheet? If I,

This winter morning, were not covered better,
I should be cold like her.

F. No-not like her :

The fire might warm you, or thick clothes her

Nothing can warm again!

C. If I could wake her,

She would smile on me, as she always does,

And kiss me.

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Mother! you have slept too longHer face is pale and it would frighten me, But that I know she loves me.

F. Come, my child.

C. Once, when I sat upon her lap, I felt A beating at her side, and then she said It was her heart that beat, and bade me feel For my own heart, and they both beat alike, Only mine was the quickest―And I feel My own heart yet-but her's-I cannot feelF. Child! child!-you drive me mad-Come hence, I say.

C. Nay, father, be not angry! let me stay here

Till

my mother wakens.

F. I have told you,

Your mother cannot wake-not in this world-
But in another she will wake for us.

When we have slept like her, then we shall see her. C. Would it were night then!

F. No, unhappy child!

Full many a night shall pass, ere thou canst sleep That last, long sleep.-Thy father soon shall sleep it;

Then wilt thou be deserted upon earth;

None will regard thee; thou wilt soon forget
That thou hadst natural ties,-an orphan lone
Abandoned to the wiles of wicked men.

C. Father! Father!

Why do

you look so terribly upon me,

You will not hurt me?

F. Hurt thee, darling? no!

Has sorrow's violence so much of anger,

That it should fright my boy? Come, dearest, come. C. You are not angry then?

F. Too well I love you.

C. All you have said I cannot now remember,
Nor what is meant-you terrify me so.
But this I know, you told me,-I must sleep
Before my mother wakens-so, to-morrow-
Oh father! that to-morrow were but come !

THE ACORN AND THE PUMPKIN.

Two gardeners once beneath an oak
Lay down to rest, when Jack thus spoke-

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