It was the hour of noon, on a bright June day. A band of happy, sportive children were just let loose from school, and with whoop and huzza, with careless laugh, and merry song, away bounded the gay young things, happy that the four brick walls of A B C-dom were behind them, yet now and then glancing back with a look of fondness to their school-mistress, as she slowly crossed the play-ground to her own residence. In the path before her gayly frolicked a beautiful girl of perhaps ten summers, the very embodiment of health and innocence, skipping and dancing onward, light as any fairy, or with sunny smiles bounding back with a flower and a kiss for the child her mother was so tenderly assisting. This poor little creature was not only very lame, but was terribly hunchbacked, and otherwise deformed. Although really older than little Ruth Oakly, (for in the school-mistress the reader finds the widow,) she was not taller than most children at five. One little hand was clasped in her mother’s, (she knew no other mother,) who, with the most tender care, guarded her steps, now and then, as the eyes of the child were lifted to hers, stooping down to kiss her, and encouraging her in the most endearing terms. The other hand held a wreath of flowers, which she had woven for her dear sister Ruth. As they entered the gate opening upon the nicely graveled walk leading up to the cottage-door, Ruth ran and brought a little arm-chair on rollers, softly cushioned, and placed it on the grass beneath the shadow of a large apple-tree, whose pendant branches, nestling down amid the sweet clover, thus formed a beautiful bower for the children’s sports. “There, Gatty,” cried Ruth, flinging herself down at her feet among the clover, “now let’s play the story you were reading this morning. You shall be queen, and I will be the little girl that was never happy; would it be wrong, Gatty, to _play_ you were never happy—would it be telling a lie; for you know, Gatty, dear, I am very, very happy—aren’t you?” “Yes—very happy,” said Agatha, thoughtfully, “but, Ruth, I cannot be queen, you know—how I should look! No, you must be queen; and see, I have made this pretty wreath on purpose for you. I will be the ugly old fairy, and ma’ma shall be Leoline, that was never happy—for, Ruthy, do you know I think dear ma’ma is sometimes very miserable. I wonder what makes her cry so; for every night when she kneels down by our bed-side I can feel the hot tears on my cheek as she kisses me.” “Ah! and so can I—poor ma’ma!” said Ruth, and both children remained sad and thoughtful, the arm of Ruth thrown across the lap of her sister, whose little hand, still clasping the wreath, rested on Ruth’s shoulder. At length Agatha spoke, but her voice was low and broken. “Ruth,” said she, “maybe ma’ma weeps for me, because—because—I am not more like _you_.” “How like me?” said the little girl, raising her eyes to the sad face bent over her.