warming through her bosom. While the former was made happier for the moment, the latter was made better permanently.
“Don’t go away, sister,” said a poor little invalid, lifting his large blue eyes to the face of his sister, a young girl in her sixteenth year, who had just come into his room with her bonnet and shawl on. “I want you to stay with me.” “Sister must go, dear,” spoke up the mother. “She has been invited out, and has promised herself much pleasure in going. I will stay with you.” “I want sister to stay too,” replied the child. “I don’t want her to go away.” The sister stood thoughtful for a few moments, and then, whispering something in her mother’s ear, laid off her bonnet and shawl, and sat down by the bedside of her sick brother, whose eyes brightened up, and almost sparkled with pleasure. First she told him a story, and then, holding one of his hands in hers, she sang to him a little song. “Sing another, dear sister,” said the child. The sister sang another and another song, her voice falling into a lower and more soothing tone. Presently she ceased, and looked up into the face of her mother with a smile. The dear little sufferer was asleep. The maiden bent down over the bed, and tenderly kissed the slumberer’s cheek; then rising up quickly, she
