tight.

"Why, darling," I said, "didn't you hear mamma tell you this was Boston?
Don't go to sleep again; there are auntie and little Bess."

"Mamma," she answered gravely, "I was not going to sleep. I was asking
God to let that little girl be my friend."

"But, my dear," I said, "you live in Newport, and you have only seen her
in the cars. She probably lives in Boston. Come, auntie is hunting for
us."

Josie had a fine time at auntie's, and her cousin Bess for a while
filled completely the position of friend. But the week over, and we were
aboard the train for Newport; and Josie's mind was again filled with the
all-engrossing subject of--a friend.

We arrived at home in time for luncheon. Immediately after, Josie was in
her room telling her sister all about her visit. Suddenly I heard a cry
of joy. "O mamma! mamma! There she is! God did send her."

I hurried into Josie's room, and there at the window stood Josie,
holding up her doll, and smiling at the window of the next house.

A second glance showed me that this was the very child we had seen in
the cars.

The little girls soon became acquainted, for little Carrie had come to
spend the winter with the Endicotts, who owned the house next our
cottage.

No words can tell how happy my Josie has been with the little friend God
sent her.

[Illustration]

BUTTERFLY WISDOM.

[Illustration]

A butterfly poised on a wild-rose spray,
As a child tripped by one summer day,
And he thought: "How sorrowful she must be
To know she can never have wings like me!"
But the child passed on, with a careless eye
Of the gay-winged, proud, young butterfly,
While he fluttered about, as butterflies will,
Sipping of honey and dew his fill.

The butterfly spread his wings to the sky,
As the sweet-faced child again tripped by,
And he thought: "How envious she will be
My beautiful azure wings to see!"
But the child passed, with a lightsome heart,
Where never had lodged a poisonous dart,
While he fluttered about, as butterflies will,
Sipping of honey and dew his fill.

[Illustration]

When the child again passed the wild-rose sweet,
A bit of azure fell at her feet;
She lifted it from the moss, and said:--
"Poor little butterfly, it is dead!"
Then she tossed it up towards the wild-rose spray,
And, singing merrily, went her way,
With never a thought, the summer through,
Of the butterfly and its wings of blue.

[Ill