dured contumely and privation—for their sakes she curbed a temper naturally warm—lest one disrespectful word should give her mistress a hold against her. She knew that while she remained in that house—now so little of a home to any of them, the orphans had still one tender friend, one to watch their sickness, to hear their little griefs, and console them as far as pity could console. She could talk to them of their own mother—she could teach them to pray, and, young as they were, their sweetest hopes were garnered in that world which is beyond the grave.
Evening after evening, when secure from Mrs. Dalton's entrance, as she was then generally engaged with her guests below, the children would take their seats at Eda's feet, and listen while she read aloud, from the large old Bible, such portions as were adapted to their infant minds. "Suffer ye little children to come unto me," were the latest words that they heard at night, and the hope which lingered the last around their often restless pillow. All Mrs. Dalton's efforts to dis-
