have a power of sympathy which is as rare as
it is beautiful. A child who had this power
of sympathy was once seen to look grave
while his brother was admiringly surveying
the luxuries of a sick room; and then he
answered, with a sigh from the bottom of his
little heart, "Ah! but the unhealthiness!
That spoils every thing:" and the melancholy
of his tone carried solace to the heart of the
patient. Such a power of sympathy it was
that made "Mother" the best of nurses. She
knew that these luxuries were all very well
for the gayer hours, but were of no avail for
the sadder. In those darker hours, she found
time to sit on the edge of Allan's bed, and let
him hold her gown, and look in her face, and
speak of his strange fears and miseries, till
she could lead him away to happier thoughts.
Or she roused him by consultation about the
troubles of some neighbour, or by news of
some good fortune happening to somebody.
It was at those times that she felt most the
want of education in herself and him. She
knew enough to be aware how many more
sources of interest would have been open to
him, if both had known more of the structure
of the universe, and of the wonders of science,
and of the history and present interests of
men. She was aware how much less oppressive
the narrowness of his prison would
have been, if his mind could have gone abroad,
on the wings of knowledge, through the great
world, and the vast and varied scene of human
life: and she was deeply humble about what
she could do for him, because it was not
more.

Such experience as she had was carefully
reviewed in his service, and used to plead his
cause. Her husband, who had never been
ill in his life, was sometimes vexed that "so
much fuss" was made about Allan's pleasures.
She reminded her husband that when people
have a terrible care on their minds, the
worst time of day is the waking in the morn-
ing. Then everything looks black, and fearful,
and wretched; but, when one has splashed
one's self with cold water, and gone out into
the morning air, everything looks so differently,
that one can hardly believe one was so
miserable an hour before. Now, this mood of
misery was exactly what Allan could not
escape from. There was no rising from bed,
no going into the open air for him; no
refreshing of the frame, no change of ideas for
him; but the continuing of weary sensations
and dreary thoughts, from day to day, and
from month to month. Her husband said
slightingly, that this was all very fine talk-
but it made its impression on him, as she
soon found. When Allan wanted anything
in the night, he knocked on the floor with a
stick. One night, at a time when she had
daily to prepare breakfast at five o'clock, for
her husband and son, she had gone to bed at
some time past midnight, so weary, that she
slept through two of Allan's knocks. Her
husband woke her, and asked her how she
could let the poor fellow keep knocking
without going to him. She sprang up in
great delight at such a proof of sympathy
from her husband.

A time of adversity for the family was now
at hand. Ewing hurt his arm at his work,
and was obliged to be idle for four months.
The maintenance of the family now depended
on "Mother," with such help as Jack could
give. Mrs. Ewing took in more washing,
having lately procured a mangle. Still, her
great anxiety was that poor Allan should not
suffer—should not even perceive any change
in the affairs of the household. Her husband
could spend more time with him, now that
she had less to spare. This was not the same
thing to Allan; and, try as he would, he
could not help showing it. He could not help
listening for her step on the stairs; and he
did not know how his face lighted up when
she entered the room. He could not help
telling Mr. Franklin that he "loved to hear her
talk." It was at time that the news came of
the death of her brother in London. The
event was sudden; and she wept bitterly.
The more she tried to restrain her tears, for
Allan's sake—he being then in one of his
seasons of depression and alarm—the more
the tears would come; and, as soon as she
had regained her composure, some ladies, who
had heard of Allan's case from Mr. Franklin,
called to see him. "Mother's" countenance
lighted up at the sight of "more friends for
poor Allan." She washed her face, and hoped
she had got rid of all signs of grief, when she
led the way into his room with a smile and
cheerful talk. But, just as if no strangers had
been present, Allan looked wistfully in her
face, and whispered, "What is the matter,
'Mother?' " She at once told him; speaking
of her loss, not as a misfortune, but with such
sense and religious cheerfulness as did him
more good than any concealment or cant
could have done. It happened to be a
Saturday afternoon; and Ewing, coming in,
apologised to the ladies for the staircase being
dirty. There was some vexation in his tone
when he said it was always so on Saturdays
—after rain especially—for the schoolfellows
of his children always came, more or fewer of
them, to visit Allan; and their feet made a
sad mess. His wife said, with a smile, that
perhaps the ladies would come some Sunday;
and then they would see how clean the stairs
could be. It was a pleasure to Allan, and a
good thing for the children, that they should
meet; and it was only cleaning the stairs at
night, instead of in the morning. Everybody's
stairs were cleaned on Saturdays: it
was only doing it at night.

Even at this time, her charities were not
confined to Allan. While she was spreading
clothes on the beach, and giving the little
ones charge to watch them, she observed a
ragged old man, pinched, feeble, and very
dirty. He had slept four nights under a boat,
without having taken his clothes off.  She