aking the
fragments of glass from her trembling hands. "A very careless little
girl, and I am displeased with you!"

I said no more; but my countenance expressed even stronger rebuke
than my words. The child lingered near me for, a few moments, and
then shrunk away from the room. I was sorry, in a moment, that I had
permitted myself to speak unkindly to the little girl; for there was
no need of my doing so; and, moreover, she had taken my words, as I
could see, deeply to heart. I had made her unhappy without a cause.
The breaking of the tumbler was an accident likely to happen to any
one and the child evidently felt bad enough about what had occurred,
without having my displeasure added thereto.

If I was unhappy before Jane entered my room I was still more
unhappy after she retired. I blamed myself, and pitied the child;
but this did not in the least mend the matter.

In about half an hour, Jane came up very quietly with Willy, my dear
little, curly-haired, angel-face boy, in her arms. He had fallen
asleep, and she had, with her utmost strength, carried him
up-stairs. She did not lift her eyes to mine as she entered, but
went, with her burden, to the low bed that was in the room, where
she laid him tenderly, and then sat down with her face turned partly
away from me, and with a fan kept off the flies and cooled his moist
skin.

Enough of Jane's countenance was visible to enable me to perceive
that its expression was sad. And it was an unkind word from my lips
that had brought this cloud over her young face!

"So much for permitting myself to fall into a fretful mood," said I,
mentally. "In future I must be more watchful over my state of mind.
I have no right to make others suffer from my own unhappy temper."

Jane continued to sit by Willy and fan him; and every now and then I
could hear a very low sigh come up, as if involuntarily, from her
bosom. Faint as the sound was, it smote upon my ear, and added to my
uncomfortable frame of mind.

A friend called, and I went down into the parlour, and sat
conversing there for an hour. But all the while there was a weight
upon my feelings. I tried, but in vain, to be cheerful. I was too
distinctly aware of the fact, that an individual--and that a
motherless little girl--was unhappy through my unkindness; and the
consciousness was like a heavy hand upon my bosom.

"This is all a weakness," I said to myself, after my friend had
left, making an effort to throw off the un