when she is well, with the aid of our little Margaret, she can maintain herself and her helpless children in tolerable comfort. Thus the orphan has it in her power to repay the kindness shown to her, and by exercising the noble virtue of gratitude, to rise daily higher in the scale of being." "Dear Aunty!" cried Amy, with all eagerness, "have you not been telling us the story of _our_ Mrs. Norton, and that pretty little adopted daughter of hers, with the large, deep blue eyes?" "You have guessed my riddle, Amy," replied her aunt, smiling. "I called there this morning while you were all out--while George was amusing himself by falling into the pond--and heard the whole history from the sick woman's lips. I felt so deeply interested in it, that I thought you could spend an hour worse than in listening to the simple tale." "Are you sure that you have not embellished it?" asked Mr. Wyndham, with a smile. "Quite sure: for, although I filled up a few gaps in the narrative by using my very common-place imagination, I assure you that all the facts are substantially the same. And I don't doubt that if I had witnessed the scenes described, I should have been able to make my story far more pathetic, and far more romantic, because it would then have been a daguerreotype of the truth. I have talked with little Margaret herself, and certainly I have never seen a more engaging and lovely child. At my urgent request, she consented to lend me her precious medallion for a few days--and here it is." "What a spiritual, poetical face!" exclaimed Mr. Wyndham. "I declare it reminds me of a portrait of Schiller which I once saw." "And the mother, too--there is no doubt of that woman being a real lady," said Ellen. "Did you ever see a sweeter, gentler countenance?" "Never," replied Alice. "But, uncle, do you not know that I have an idea? I guessed all along that Margaret Roscoe was _our_ little friend--but I feel sure that rascal of a Smith was lying, when he said he had seen her uncle's death in the paper. It's not very likely such a fellow as he was, would object to telling an untruth! He only wanted to get her trunks, and to quiet her, you may be sure. And I believe that Mr. Alan Roscoe is now living in Philadelphia--and I believe that I know him, uncle!" Her uncle started, and exclamations of surprise and delight burst from all the circle. "It might very well be," Mr. Wyndham said; "I remember thinking our amiable friend Smith was speaking an untruth, at the time, although I did not carry out the idea. But do you know any one of that name, Alice? Surely, it cannot be Mr. Roscoe, the retired merchant, who is so prominent for his benevolence and liberality?"