“Look again!” came like tones of music to my ear.

I looked, and saw one lying upon a bed.  By the lines upon his brow, and the compression of his lips, it was evident that he was in bodily suffering.  A book lay near him; it was written by the gifted one, and was full of bright thoughts and beautiful images.  He took it, and tried to forget his pain in these thoughts and images.  But in this he did not succeed, and soon laid it aside with a groan of anguish.  Then there was handed to him my poor and commonplace work; and he opened the pages and began to read.  I soon perceived that an interest was awakened in his mind.  Gradually the contraction of his brow grew less severe, and, in a little while, he had forgotten his pain.

“I will be more patient,” said he, in a calm voice, after he had read for a long time with a deep interest.  “There are many with pain worse than mine to bear, who have none of the comforts and blessings so freely scattered along my way through life.”

And then he gave directions to have relief sent to one and another whom he now remembered to be in need.

“It is a good work that prompts to good in others,” said the old man.  “What if it be dull and tame—­commonplace to the few—­it is a good gift to the world, and thousands will bless the giver.  Look again!”

An angry mother, impatient and fretted by the conduct of a froward child, had driven her boy from her presence, when, if she had controlled her own feelings, she might have drawn him to her side and subdued him by the power of affection.  She was unhappy, and her boy had received an injury.

The mother was alone.  Before her was a table covered with books, and she took up one to read.  I knew the volume; it was written by one whose genius had a deep power of fascination.  Soon the mother became lost in its exciting pages, and remained buried in them for hours.  At length, after turning the last page, she closed the book; and then came the thought of her wayward boy.  But, her feelings toward him had undergone no change; she was still angry, because of his disobedience.

Another book lay upon the table; a book of no pretensions, and written with the simple purpose of doing good.  It was commonplace, because it dealt with things in the common life around us.  The mother took this up, opened to the title-page, turned a few leaves, and then laid it down again; sat thoughtful for some moments, and then sighed.  Again she lifted the book, opened it, and commenced reading.  In a little while she was all attention, and ere long I saw a tear stealing forth upon her cheeks.  Suddenly she closed the book, evincing strong emotion as she did so, and, rising up, went from the room.  Ascending to a chamber above, she entered, and there found the boy at play.  He looked towards her, and, remembering her anger, a shadow flitted across his face.  But his mother smiled and looked kindly towards him.  Instantly the boy dropped his playthings, and sprung to her side.  She stooped and kissed him.