Four years of sunshine and storm have fallen upon Maggie’s grave, where now a costly marble stands, while the handsome iron fence and the well-kept grounds within show that some hand of love is often busy there. In a distant city Ben is striving to overcome his old dislike for books, and seeking to make himself what he knows his sister would wish him to be. At home, the little store has been neatly fitted up, and Miss Olivia sits all the day long in her pleasant parlour, feeling sure that the faithful clerk behind the counter will discharge his duties well. Greystone Hall is beautiful as ever, with its handsome rooms, its extensive grounds, its winding walks, its bubbling fountains and its wealth of flowers, but there is a shadow over all—a plague-spot which has eaten into the heart of Graham Thornton, and woven many a thread of silver among his raven locks. It has bent the stately form of his lady mother, and his once gay-hearted wife wanders with a strange unrest from room to room, watching over the uncertain footsteps of their only child, whose large, dark eyes, so much like those which, four long years ago flashed down on Helen their scrutinizing gaze, are darkened forever, for little Maggie Lee is blind! They are getting somewhat accustomed to it now—accustomed to calling her their ‘poor, blind bird,’ but the blow was crushing when first it came, and on the grave in the valley, Graham Thornton more than once laid his forehead in the dust, and cried, ‘My punishment is greater than I can bear.’ But He ‘who doeth all things well,’ has in a measure healed the wound, throwing so much of sunshine and of joy around her, who never saw the glorious light of day, that with every morning’s dawn and every evening’s shade, the fond parents bless their little blind girl, and angel of their home. THE END. THE ANSWERED PRAYER. All day long the canary bird had sung unheeded in his gilded cage by the door, and the robin had carolled unheard by his nest in the tall maple tree, while the soft summer air and the golden rays of the warm June sun entered unnoticed through the open windows of the richly furnished rooms, where a pale young mother kept her tireless watch by the bedside of her only child, a beautiful boy, three summers old. For many days he had hovered between life and death, while she, his mother, had hung over him with speechless agony, terrible to behold in one so young, so fair as she. He was her all, the only happiness she knew, for poor Lina Hastings was an unloving wife, who never yet had felt a thrill of joy at the sound of her husband’s voice, and when occasionally his broad hand rested fondly upon her flowing curls, while he whispered in her ear how dear she was to him, his words awoke no answering chord of love.