Thus it went on—­the invalid growing worse instead of better.  Not a want was expressed that money did not supply; not a caprice or fancy or appetite, which met not a proffered gratification.  But all availed not.  Her worst disease was mental, having its origin in inordinate selfishness.  It never came into her. mind to deny herself for the sake of others; to stifle her complaints lest they should pain the ears of her husband, children, or friends; to bear the weight of suffering laid upon her with at least an effort at cheerfulness.  And so she became a burden to those who loved her.  In her presence the sweet voices of children were hushed, and smiles faded away.  Nothing that was gay, or glad, or cheerful came near her that it did not instantly change into sobriety or sadness.

Not very far away from the beautiful home of this unhappy invalid, is another sufferer from ill-health.  We will look in upon her.  The chamber is poorly furnished, containing scarcely an article the absence of which would not have abridged the comfort of its occupant.  We enter.

What a light has come into those sunken eyes, and over that pale face!  We take the thin, white hand; a touch of sadness is in our voice that will not be repressed, as we make inquiries about her health; but she answers cheerfully and hopefully.

“Do you suffer pain?”

“Yes; but mostly at night.  All day long I find so much to interest me, and so many thoughts about my children fill my mind, that I hardly find time to think of my own feelings.  Care is a blessing.”

With what a patient, heavenly smile this is said!  How much of life’s true philosophy is contained in that closing sentence!  Yes, care is a blessing.  What countless thousands would, but for daily care, be unutterably miserable.  And yet we are ever trying to throw off care; to rise into positions where we will be free from action or duty.

The voice of a child is now heard.  It is crying.

“Dear little Aggy!  What can ail her?” says the mother, tenderly.  And she inclines an ear, listening earnestly.  The crying continues.

“Poor child!  Something is wrong with her.  Won’t you open the door a moment?”

The door is opened, and the sick mother calls the name of “Aggy” two or three times.  But her voice too feeble to reach the distant apartment.

We second the mother’s wishes, and go for the grieving little one.

“Mother wants Aggy.”

What magic words!  The crying has ceased instantly, and rainbow smiles are seen through falling tears.

“Dear little dove!  What has troubled it?” How tender and soothing and full of love is the voice that utters these words!  We lift Aggy upon the bed.  A moment, and her fresh warm cheek is close to the pale face of her mother; while her hand is nestling in her bosom.

The smile that plays so beautifully over the invalid’s face has already answered the question we were about to ask—­“Will not the child disturb you?” But our face has betrayed our thoughts, and she says—­