invited him home, that she might wash his
shirt; gave him warm water to wash himself;
made up a bed for him by the kitchen fire;
and sat up to wash, iron, and mend his
clothes, when everybody else was asleep.
By this time, any one would have taken
her to be ten years older than she was,
- so worn and haggard was her face, from
fatigue and insufficient sleep: but it was
beautiful in the eyes of all good people,
from the expression it bore of a bright and
serene spirit.

She had yet more to endure, however.
Allan was now, from his bodily state, very
far from being bright or serene.  Some of his
pains returned, from time to time; and his
nervous terrors seized him more frequently.
Some change seemed most desirable; and
while "Mother" was considering what novelty
she could invent, his old thirst for the sight
of the face of nature revived. He wept
grievously for a sight of the sky and the grass,
and he dreamed of them, as a starving wretch
dreams of delicious food. One day, when
Ewing was out, (and if he had been at home,
the state of his arm would have prevented
his helping) Allan's desire became uncontrollable.
As has been said, a strip of sky and
a ridge of cliff could be seen from the window-
sill.  It was rashly resolved to try whether
Allan could not be got to the window. The
distance was really so very small from the
bed, and his arms were strong, and would
support him on the sill. "O, Mother, let me
try;" he piteously cried.  Somehow or other
they managed it. It was very wrong, as she
said afterwards, but she really could not deny
him: it was very wrong, because Allan did
not know what he asked. Indeed he did not,
either for himself or for her. As for himself,
he could not have believed that grass could
look so green, or sky so blue. His heart felt
as if it would burst; and just at the moment
he saw a man walking on the ridge- swinging
along with vigorous strides, and his head
turned towards the sea. A vision of white
gliding sails, of glittering waters, of floating
sea-gulls came up before the sufferer's mind
at the same moment with the recollection of
what it was to stand with ease, and walk with
vigour. If any one wonders that this was too
much for the stout heart of a man, let him be
sure that he knows nothing of what it is to
lie in bed in one room for years together.
Allan's wild cry wrung "Mother's" heart.
It brought in neighbours. It made little
Betsy look out from the opposite warehouse,
with grave concern. Allan was soon in bed
again; but his hysterical weeping did not
cease all that day, nor all that night; and
"Mother" was not there to comfort him. She
was in bed- prematurely confined, and in
great danger.

Now was the time for all friends to help
the family. Now was the time when Mr.
Franklin called almost daily, and sent kind
ladies, "new friends for Allan," as "Mother,"
exultingly exclaimed; whereas, the ladies
came for her sake, even more than his: but
the last person she ever thought of was herself.
Now was the time when little Betsy
was oftener missed from home, and found on
the bed, getting "her dear old Allan" to help
her to dress her doll. Now was the time for
the children to show what their rearing had
been. Jack toiled abroad, and Jane at home,
doing an incredible quantity of work. The
air in Allan's room was as pure, and his sheets
as white as ever: and the younger children
waited on him, fed his birds, watered his
plants, and reported to their mother that he
wanted for nothing. Many times a day he
sent her that message himself; but O! he
wanted something—he wanted to see her
again; he wanted "to hear her talk," as he
earnestly told Mr. Franklin, who was not
jealous of "Mother's " being the sufferer's best
minister.

Things came round again in time. Ewing
got to work again; "Mother" recovered at
last; and more clothes were spread on the
beach, and the mangle was heard at work.
Allan returned to his usual state; and then
said that, but for the injury to "Mother," he
could not be sorry that he had seen the grass
and the sky. But he never said a word about
trying again; and he had indeed seen the last
of the world without. The incident seemed
to have done him good. He had always been
patient and resigned, his nurse declared; but
now he was more grateful, and sensible of his
blessings. He asked visitors whether hia
room was not wonderfully fresh,—as fresh as
any nobleman's room; and he told more
people than ever about the lodging-shops
where he and his poor brother used to sleep.
He was thankful that his poor brother had
been killed outright; for if he had been
merely hurt, and had been laid up in a lodging-
shop, (owing to its being twelve miles from
home), he would have died by inches of bad
air and misery.

Allan's time came for dying by inches; but
he never complained of his lot, though his
sufferings were, at times, too severe to be
borne in silence. When he had been confined
to his bed between five and six years, the
pains from the spine, and from other internal
injuries, came on again, and at times he
looked like a dying man. His mind was
awake and observant, however,—almost as
much as in his best days. He noticed that
the mangle stood still; and he asked why.
There was no concealing from him that
"Mother " had given up the chief part of the
washing on his account. He remonstrated
strongly against this, and urged that, for the
children's sake, the parents' occupations should
proceed. He wished, as he told Mr. Franklin,
that he had a thousand pounds to leave, and
his nurse should have every shilling of it;
but as he had nothing to leave but his blessing,
he must see that the children suffered no
more than was necessary on his account. He