A mother’s _hope_ never dies. She clasps him closer to her breast, and gazes upward;--food and sleep and rest are forgotten, so that that little flickering taper die not out. Gently upon her soft, warm breast she wooes for it baby slumbers; long, weary nights, up and down the cottage floor she paces, soothing its restless moaning. Suns rise and set--stars pale--seasons come and go;--she heeds them not, so that those languid eyes but beam brightness. Down the meadow--by the brook--on the hill-side--she seeks with him the health-restoring breeze. God be praised!--health comes at last! What joy to see the rosy flush mantle on the pallid cheek!--what joy to see the shrunken limbs grow round with health!--what joy to see the damp, thin locks grow crisp and glossy! What matter though the knitting lie neglected, or the spinning-wheel be dumb, so that the soaring kite or bouncing ball but please his boyish fancy, and prompt the gleeful shout? What matter that the coarser fare be _hers_, so that the daintier morsel pass _his_ rosy lip? What matter that _her_ robe be threadbare, so that _his_ graceful limbs be clad in Joseph’s rainbow coat? What matter that _her_ couch be hard, so that _his_ sunny head rest nightly on a downy pillow? What matter that _her_ slender purse be empty, so that _his_ childish heart may never know denial? * * * * * Years roll on. That loving mother’s eye grows dim; her glossy locks are silvered; her limbs are sharp and shrunken; her footsteps slow and tottering. And the boy?--the cherished Joseph?--he of the bold, bright eye, and sinewy limb, and bounding step? Surely, from his kind hand shall flowers be strewn on the dim, downward path to the dark valley; surely will her son’s strong arm be hers to lean on; his voice of music sweeter to her dull ear than seraphs’ singing. No, no!--the hum of busy life has struck upon his ear, drowning the voice of love. He has become a MAN! refined, fastidious!--and to his forgetful, unfilial heart, (God forgive him,) the mother who bore him is only--“_the old woman!_” SUNDAY MORNING AT THE DIBDINS. “Jane,” (suddenly exclaims Mrs. Dibdin,) “do you know it is nearly time for your Sabbath School to commence? I hope you have committed your hymns and commandments to memory. Put on your little jet bracelet, and your ruffled pantalettes. Now, say the third commandment, while I fix your curls. It does seem to me as if your hair never curls half as well on Sundays as on week days. Mind, you ask Letty Brown where her mother bought that cunning little straw hat of hers,--not in Sabbath School, of course--that would be very wicked--but after it is over, as you walk along to church.