Faith looked at her father with an expression which seemed to say--do not refer to the cause of her grief. Armstrong understood the appeal, but he had that in his mind which was unknown to his daughter, and after a pause he proceeded. "I have more property than I deserve, and what better use can I put it to than give it to the deserving? You will find in that," he continued, handing a paper to the widow, "what will entitle you to a little income during your life. I hope it will enable you to take better care of your children." Mrs. Sill took the paper mechanically, and gazed upon without opening it or imagining the extent of the gift. She kept turning it round and round in her fingers, as if not knowing what to do with it. "Everybody knows you're a kind man, and as generous as you're rich, Mr. Armstrong;" at last she said, "But I guess I shant want anything long in this world." "I hope you may live long yet," said Mr. Armstrong, "for the sake of the little boys." This allusion recalled her more to herself, and without looking at the paper she put it into her bosom. "I'm sure I thank you with all my heart, and shall always try to do my duty by them," she said. Here Mr. Armstrong rose, and Faith, putting down the child, that seemed loth to leave her, spoke in a low tone some parting words of consolation. "I'm sure you're very good; I'm sure I'm very much obleeged to you," was all Mrs. Sill could say. On their way home Faith spoke of the promising appearance of the children, and of what the hopes of the mother must be on their account. "It is true they are all that are left to her," said Mr. Armstrong, "and what hopes she has of earthly happiness must be built on them. But who can look into to-morrow? A few days ago, never dreaming of misfortune, she exulted in the enjoyment of her husband and little boys. The first is taken away, and none know how soon the latter may be. So joys and sorrows are mingled together. At this moment she is more miserable for having been happy, and so great is the misery, it outweighs all the happiness of former years. Such is the nature of pain and pleasure. A pang of the former, an instant's acute agony, may be equivalent to hours of what is called enjoyment. We are so made. We may hope for happiness: we are certain of sorrow. We must seek after the one: the other is sure to find us. When I look round, what evidences of wretchedness do I see! Alas, it is indeed a fallen world, and the ground is cursed for man's sake." "You take a gloomy view, father," said Faith. "Look beyond. Are we not promised a happier time when the bliss of Eden shall be renewed?"