hen 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
for ever, 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 hill-sides 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 youthful 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
humour 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 back to me."

Alice kissed he