Year: 1875

ting, glad and merry "in their spring
on that spring day." All right enough,
if only duty, in the shape of poor, little
Sammy, had not been left behind.


They always thought they were not
gone five minutes; but it was at least
half an hour before they came in sight
of Sammy again; and then he was not
in the little wagon. The violets lay
there fading in the sun; but Sammy
was on the ground, and there was such
white, white face on which the May
sun was shining. The girls sprang
toward him; but just as they reached
him, Jenny turned to Susy with such a
look of pale despair as one hardly sees
twice in lifetime.


"You touch him, Susy," she gasped;
81 dare mott think he is dead"


And Susy went to lift him up. At
her touch he opened his eyes, with
feeble little wall and then, seeing the
girls, he tried to smile.


Sammy wantedto come, too-Sammy
fell"


Then the blue eyes shut again, and
the girls understood all. He had been
frightened at being left alone, and he
had tried to get out of the wagon to drag
himself after them. In the attempt he
had fallen, and hurt himself-who knew
how badly9


"Oh, Susyl" Jenny cried, "will
you go and tell mother2 I dare not.
I'll wait here"


Kind-hearted Susy flew away like the
wind, and Jenny sat down on the grass,
and drew the poor little sunny head,
with the white, white, silent face, upon
her knee. When Susy reached the
house, she saw Mr.. Osgood first. He
had just come in, and was standing at the
door. To him she painted forth her
story, and he was off to the woods be-
fore she had finished it.


He found his children there-Sammy
swooning from pain, and Jenny more
dead than alive in her terror. He lifted
the baby tenderly, and examined his
poor, frail little boy. He soon saw that
it was an arm, which had been broken
in the little fellows fall, that made
the troubles He spoke to Jenny cheer
fully, for his heart was full of pity for
her.


cts broken arm, dear, that can be
set right by a surgeon and few weeks
of care, which you will be glad to help
mother take, I know"


Then he carried Sammy, still uncon-
scious, home in his arms. Mrs. Osgood
had made all things ready. She was one
of those women who find strength, not
lose it, when time of trial comes. She
had sent Susy into the village for
physician. She had everything that
could possibly be needed in waiting.
Mr.. Osgood laid Sammy down ON his
own little white, fresh bed.


"Dont take on, Jane," he said to his
wife. "He has broken his little arm :;
but it will all come right"


Soon came the doctor, and confirmed
what the father had said. The arm was
set, and presently Sammy was looking
around him, as comfortable in his mind
as was possible to broken-arm baby.
Nobody scolded the girls, for they had
suffered enough. 1t was a lesson they
would never in all their lives forget.


The little arm healed fast, as baby
hurts do. I think, even, that Sammy
rather enjoyed this time of illness; for
Jenny devoted herself tohim constantly.
She played with him, she sang to him,
she told him stories. She never, never
could do enough, she thought, to make
up for having brought this pain and
peril upon him by her selfish neglect.
She was sure she could not forgive her
self, but every one else who saw her
sorrow and her devotion, forgave her
freely.


Sammy's arm was as good as new in
few weeks; and in the autumn he began
to walk about. Jenny loved to watch
him and help him, and pick him up when
he fell down. But sometimes she used
to say how soon he would be a boy and
not baby; and then there never would
be baby in the house any more. She
thought she would rather tend him for
ever than have him grow beyond her
tending. [ think even his mother
thought SO too, sometimes, when she
watched his cunning, coaxing little ways,
or laid the little head, with the soft rings
of yellow hair and the fair, flower-like
face against her heart that ached with
the weight of its own tenderness. 1t
seemed as if never any child was loved
like that child.


You know how diphtheria ragged last
winter among the little ones2 Sammy
was one of the first children to be
with it in the little town where
he lived. A few hours of peril and pain,
and then the everlasting rest. They
mourned for him, as all of us have
mourned over little graves; but when he
had been dead short time, they began
to know that he had never gone away
from them. Other peoples children
might grow out of their sweet babyhood
to be rude boys, or hard men, but over
their baby no change of age could come.
Other people might not see him, but
they saw him always-a little one for
ever-with immortal sunshine on his
rings of yellow hair, and a smile that