e glass and signified that I should
see what a pleasant prospect there was from it. And there she, who had
never seen or heard, waited by my side in great content while I looked
and listened. Yet her face was radiant, and she stood there as if she
both saw and heard. I wish I could bring before all those who are
discontented with their lot, repining because God has withheld something
from them or taken something away, the cheerful face of this lady, who
has so little, but who accepts it as though she had all, who has never
seen a human countenance or heard a human voice, who in the infinite
glory and beauty of this outward world has no part, shut in by herself
in that silent, dark, unchanging, awful loneliness. Next she showed me
how springy her bed was. Then she took off my shawl, and showed me all
the pretty things and conveniences she had in her room, opening every
box and drawer, and displaying the contents. Her jet chain she laid
against her neck, her bows and collars and embroidered hand-kerchiefs
were taken up one by one, and deftly replaced in their proper
receptacles. Her writing materials, sewing implements, little
statuettes, trinkets, large Bible--I had to see them all. Lastly she
took out a sheet of paper, pressed it down on a French writing-board,
examined the point of the pencil, and wrote her autograph, "God is love
and truth. S. N. Bridgman." And then from her needle-case and spool-box
produced a cambric needle and fine cotton, and showed me how to thread a
needle, which was done by holding the eye against the tip of her tongue,
the exquisite nicety of touch in it guiding her to pass the thread
through. It was done in an instant, though it seemed impossible to do it
at all, and then she presented me the threaded needle triumphantly,
having secured it by slipping a knot. Going down to the parlour again,
she told me how kind it was in Dr. Howe to fit her up such a pretty
room; and then I must go into the school room, whither she led me by the
hand, and introduced me to several of her friends among the pupils, and
when I took my departure she would have the teacher go with me to the
door to tell me which car to take.

A DEAF AND DUMB BOY'S DEVOTION.

[Illustration]

Under the trees standing by the left bank of the Thames, and sheltered
from its waters by a mound of earth, is an old but comfortable
boathouse. A few roughly-hewn steps lead from the mound to the water's
edge, where some six or seven