ow
lingered over her for many years. When Alice lost her mother, she lost
the joy and delight of her existence, and although six years had passed
since that awful day, and a fond Christian father had done his best to
impress on her young mind that the beloved one was not lost forever, but
would one day be found sitting at the feet of Jesus in a bright and
beautiful world, the poor child could not recover her former elasticity
of spirits. Doubtless her isolated position, and the want of suitable
companions, had something to do with the prolonged sadness of her little
heart.

It is almost unnecessary to say that her love for her father was
boundless. This was natural, but it did not seem by any means so natural
that the delicate child should give the next place in her heart to a
wild little boy, a black girl, and a ragged little dog! Yet so it was,
and it would have been difficult for the closest observer to tell which
of these three Alice liked best.

No one could so frequently draw forth the merry laugh that in former
days had rung so sweetly over the hillsides of the verdant isle as our
young friend Will Corrie. Nothing could delight the heart of the child
so much as to witness the mad gambols, not to mention the mischievous
deeds, of that ragged little piece of an old door-mat, which, in virtue
of its being possessed of animal life, was named Toozle. And when Alice
wished to talk quietly,--to pour out her heart, and sometimes her
tears,--the bosom she sought on which to lay her head, next to her
father's, was that of her useful nursery-maid, a good, kind, and gentle,
but an awfully stupid native girl, named Kekupoopi.

This name was, of course, reduced in its fair proportions by little
Alice, who, however, retained the latter part thereof in preference to
the former, and styled her maid Poopy. Young Master Corrie, on the other
hand, called her Kickup or Puppy, indifferently, according to the humor
he chanced to be in when he met her, or to the word that rose most
readily to his lips.

Mr. Mason replied to the question put by Alice, at the beginning of this
somewhat lengthy digression, "No, my lamb, friends would not willingly
do us harm; but there are those who call themselves friends who do not
deserve the name, who pretend to be such, but who are in reality secret
enemies. But go, dearest, to your room; I am busy just now talking with
Henry: he, at least, is a trusty friend. When I have done, you shall
come bac