e show it to mamma,' she said: and
Patty was in such a hurry to be off that she made no objection.

A pleasant journey, a great deal of hugging and kissing, some tears and
tender laments for baby, and then it was time to show the quilt, which
mamma said was just what she wanted to throw over her feet as she lay on
the sofa.

If there _were_ any fairies, Patty would have been sure they had done
something to her bed-cover, for when she proudly unrolled it, what do
you think she saw?

Right in the middle of the white star, which was the centre-piece,
delicately drawn with indelible ink, was a smiling little cherub, all
head and wings, and under it these lines--

'While sister dear lies asleep,
Baby careful watch will keep.'

Then in each of the four gay squares that were at the corners of the
strip that framed the star, was a white bit bearing other pictures and
couplets that both pleased and abashed Patty as she saw and read them.

In one was seen a remarkably fine bun, with the lines--

'Who stole the hot bun
And got burnt well?
Go ask the lilac bush,
Guess it can tell.'

In the next was a plump, tailless bird, who seemed to be saying
mournfully--

'My little tail, my little tail!
This bitter loss I still bewail;
But rather ne'er have tail again
Than Patty should deceive Aunt Pen.'

The third was less embarrassing, for it was a pretty bunch of flowers so
daintily drawn one could almost think they smelt them, and these lines
were underneath--

'Every flower to others given,
Blossoms fair and sweet in heaven.'

The fourth was a picture of a curly-haired child sewing, with some very
large tears rolling down her cheeks and tumbling off her lap like
marbles, while some tiny sprites were catching and flying away with them
as if they were very precious--

'Every tender drop that fell,
Loving spirits caught and kept;
And Patty's sorrows lighter grew,
For the gentle tears she wept.'

'Oh, aunty! what does it all mean?' cried Patty, who had looked both
pleased and ashamed as she glanced from one picture to the other.

'It means, dear, that the goods and bads got into the bed-quilt in spite
of you, and there they are to tell their own story. The bun and the lost
tail, the posy you took to poor Lizzie, and the trouble you bore so
sweetly. It is just so with our lives, though we don't see it quite as
clearly as this. Invisible hands paint our faults and virtues, and
by