"Oh, mamma! I am glad about that; but I can't help thinking, if you hadn't taught me to love my sister, and not give way to temper, I might have--I mean, dear, darling Emma might have been burned to death. Do you think God has forgiven me, mamma, for striking her as I used to?" "Yes, Josey, I am sure He has. You're a kind, affectionate brother now, teaching your sister to be patient and obliging." She saw the shock had been too much for him. He trembled excessively as he tried to unbutton his jacket. "I'll talk with you all about it to-morrow," she said; "try to say your prayers now, and go to sleep." "But, mamma, are you sure Aunt Fanny will get well? She did groan so, when the doctor touched her arm." "Oh, yes! I hope she'll be better in a few days. Burns are always very painful at first." "Well, Aunt Fanny is a good missionary. Isn't she? She was kind one to another." "Yes, indeed! she always is that; just like your father, you know." Mr. Codman wrote Mr. Barnard the same evening, and he came the day but one after the poor baby was burned, just as Mr. and Mrs. Codman were starting to attend the funeral of the old lady and child. Fanny was dressed and sitting in an easy chair, both arms bandaged to the elbows and laid out on a pillow. She looked very white, except where a fever spot burned on each cheek. Mrs. Matthews sat by, talking in a cheerful tone, while Rose and Emma played with their dolls in the corner of the chamber. With a gentle knock Mrs. Codman peeped in, asking, in a mysterious voice,-- "Are you ready for visitors?" Then, without waiting for an answer, she beckoned the young missionary to come forward. He flew to her side, and, not daring to trust his voice, instantly kissed her cheek. "This is Mrs. Matthews," Mrs. Codman said. "She will be happy to tell you what a heroine your Fanny has been. I must run away, or I shall be late." Mrs. Matthews repeated some of the particulars of the dreadful accident, and then, seeing how hard it was for the young man to control his feelings, rose, and calling the children, left the room with them. "My own Fanny," he said, putting his hand softly on her head, "I wish I could bear this dreadful pain for you. How could you expose your precious life? What should I have done if you too"-- He stopped suddenly, and walked to the window, but soon returned at the sound of her voice, saying,-- "James, you are making quite too much of what I did. Any one would have done the same. I could never look you in the face if I had not tried to relieve such terrible suffering. But Oh, it was dreadful! I cannot forget it." Tears filled her eyes, and he tenderly wiped them away. "I cannot sleep," she went on, "except under the influence of anodynes. The shrieks and groans ring in my ears."