“Why you know, Ruth, you are so straight and so pretty, and can walk so nicely, while I—I—” “You are a thousand times better than me, dear Gatty,” cried Ruth, springing up and throwing both arms around her weeping sister—for it was almost the first time she had ever heard Agatha allude to her deformity; “indeed you are a great deal prettier and better. Oh! how many times I have heard dear ma’ma say she wished I was as good as you.” “Ruth,” said Agatha, laying her hand on her sister’s arm, and looking earnestly in her face, “I _am_ a frightful looking child, am I not?” “_You_, Agatha!” exclaimed little Ruth, “_you_ frightful! O, no; don’t every body love you, Gatty, dear?” “Everybody is very _kind_ to me,” said the child, unconsciously making the distinction—“but then, Ruth, sometimes I hear people say, ‘_O, what an ugly little thing!_’ ‘_Did you ever see such a fright?_’ and then sometimes the children call me a _spider_, and say I have arms like an _ape_, and cry, ‘_Hunch-Bunch, what’s in your pack?_’” “O, stop, dear Agatha!” said Ruth, tenderly kissing her, “don’t talk so—pray don’t! it is only rude stranger children that say so; it is because they don’t know what a sweet, dear child you are.” “I pray to God every night,” continued Agatha, “to forgive them, for they don’t know what it is to be lame, and deformed, and helpless; and I pray God to make _me_ good and amiable, too, that _I_ may forgive them.” “Don’t cry, Gatty, dear,” sobbed Ruth, and then both little heads sunk lovingly together in a paroxysm of tears. When Mrs. Oakly came to call the children to dinner, she was surprised to find them both weeping and sobbing bitterly. There was never any concealment from their mother; so Ruth, in a simple, earnest manner, related the conversation between Agatha and herself. Mrs. Oakly was grieved to find the mind of her hitherto happy child dwelling on a subject so hopelessly calamitous. Raising the poor little girl in her arms, she fondly kissed her. “My darling,” said she, “is it not better to be good and lovely in your heart, than to possess the most beautiful form, and yet be wicked, and have no love for God and his commandments? My dear little girl, listen to me; it was the will of the Almighty to strike you with lameness, and to render your frame less pleasing to the sight than that of other children; but reflect how many blessings he has also granted you. Suppose you were blind; suppose you could never look upon the face of your dear little sister Ruth, or your ma’ma’s; could not see the beautiful flowers, nor the grass, nor yonder ocean, which you now so much love to look upon, or the beautiful blue sky above you; or, Agatha, what if you were deprived of speech and hearing. Ah! my child, do not sorrow any more, for you see how good God has been; you must not let the speech of thoughtless children thus disturb you—will you promise me, Agatha?”