arris' hand, and shut her eyes, and went to
sleep as quietly as if she were on her mother's bosom.

By and by, little by little, she got strong and well again; her checks
grew plump and rosy; her hair came out in little black, curls all over
her head, and she was just the happiest little girl--as happy as you
are when you climb on your mother's lap and kiss her, as if you never
wanted to stop.

She had a little room of her own, close by her new mother's, with a
cunning little bed, and wash-stand, and bureau, and rocking chair. She
had plenty of playthings, too,--(not little Mary's, for mothers can't
give away their little children's playthings when they are dead.) Letty
had playthings of her own;--but sometimes, Mrs. Harris would unlock a
little trunk, and show her a little cake, all dried up, _with the marks
of tiny little teeth in it_; and a slate on which was a word left
unfinished by little Mary; and a little chest of doll's clothes, with
such nice little womanly stitches in them; and a little fairy thimble;
and then the tears would fall into the trunk as she locked it up again,
and then Letty would throw her arms about her neck and say, "Don't
cry--Letty loves you."

And now, my little darling readers, there is one verse in the Bible
which Aunt Fanny wants you to remember; it is this:

"When thy father and thy mother forsake thee, then the Lord will take
thee up."

FRONTIER STORIES.

"Joseph," said his mother, "I want you to run over to Aunt Elsie's and
borrow a pair of flat-irons; she said she would lend them to me, till I
could get some from the settlement."

"Yes, mother," said little Joe; "and I can whittle my stick going
along. I'm afraid Bill Sykes will get _his_ arrows made first; and if I
ain't but eight years old, he shan't beat me at anything."

So Joe perched his cap on the top of his head, and started off through
the woods, with his jack-knife for company.

"Aunt Elsie" was a widow, who lived just half a mile from Joe's
mother's. Everybody loved her, she was so motherly, and so ready to do
a kindness; every man, woman and child in the neighborhood, would have
run their feet off for her, if it would have done her any good.

Yes, Aunt Elsie was a regular sunbeam; and yet she had known sorrow and
trouble enough, for, as I told you, she was a widow; but she looked
forward to a better home than any _this_ world can furnish, and so she
bore her trials just as one would the little weariness