all others with whom you come in contact, and try to make them
happier. A little boy may do a good deal to make others happy, or
unhappy. I hope you will try to do what is right at all times, and I
doubt not you will be contented and happy there, after you become
accustomed to it."

Arthur had dried his tears, but his heart was heavy as he laid down in
his bed that night, and when he was alone, his sobs burst forth afresh.
It seemed to him very cruel to send him among strange people, and he
thought he should rather go without much to eat or wear, than to leave
home.

About ten days after, John carried Arthur to Mr. Martin's. Mrs. Hamilton
had made his clothes look as neat and tidy as possible, by thoroughly
washing and mending them, (for she could not afford to get any new
ones), and John had made him a nice box, in which they were all
carefully placed.

Arthur tried to be a brave boy, as his mother wished; but he could not
eat his breakfast that morning. Every mouthful seemed to choke him; and
when he bade his mother and the children good-bye, the tears would come
fast and thick into his eyes, in spite of all he could do to prevent it.
Tears were in his mother's eyes too, but she spoke cheerfully.

"Well, Arthur," said she, "it will be only six weeks to Thanksgiving,
and Mr. Martin has promised you shall come home then; and how glad we
shall all be to see you!"

It was a sunny, autumn morning. The white frost lay on the grass and the
fences, and the north-wind was chilly, as the boys drove on. Rover
persisted in following them, and finally Arthur begged John to take him
in, and carry him over. Rover was delighted, and laid himself down in
the bottom of the wagon, and looked affectionately into Arthur's face.

"Poor Rover," said he, "you will miss me I know; and I shall miss you a
great deal more. I wonder if Mr. Martin has a dog?"

"I guess not," said John, "for he took no notice of Rover, and every
body who likes dogs speaks to Rover, because he is so large and
handsome. I am afraid you will be homesick at first over there, but we
must do the best we can, for these are hard times. I don't see how we
can do any thing more than pay the rent this year, after all my summer's
work; for the dry weather ruined the potatoes, and corn won't bring more
than fifty cents a bushel; and how we are to live, I don't see. I am not
afraid for myself, but it is too bad for mother, and the little ones;
so, if you are homesick, y