Little James Laurence worked manfully in his new vocation. He carried home packages of tea, pounds of sausages, and paper bags stuffed with crackers, quicker than any boy of his size was ever known to do before. He ran errands up and down stairs for Kate Gorman, and soon learned to toss “Jerusha Maria” in the air with an adroitness that threw her into an ecstasy of crowing, and set her long clothes to fluttering through and through, like the plumage of a bird. He learned to put on her tiny socks when she shook them from her plump, little feet; and never touched the top of her head without trembling for the delicate spot there, which Mrs. Smith had anxiously warned him of. He kept the child’s cradle in a soft, monotonous jog while she slept, without complaint, though the day was ever so bright, and the cheery sound of boys playing marbles, on the side-walk, tempted him sorely at times. For all this James got his board, and two dollars a week, a sum that brought a marvellous quantity of groceries every Saturday night, as Mrs. Smith reckoned up accounts, and sent the boy home rejoicing to spend the Sabbath with his family. Eva, too, had received her last instalment of wages, and Mrs. Laurence grew stronger and stronger each day, as that heavy burden of anxiety was lifted from her shoulders. As for Ruth, who lived in the happiness of those around her, this gleam of sunshine revived her strength and beauty as if she had been a flower. With the reaction of infinite relief, she began to wonder if there was anything on earth that she could do for the general happiness. To say that Mrs. Smith was the good angel of this little household, would be to cast a certain degree of ridicule on this robust, ruddy-faced, and genial-hearted woman: for she had nothing of the angel about her, except that sweet snow-plumed spirit of mercy that brooded in her warm heart, as doves make a nest of soft materials, and glorify them with the cooing music of perfect love. No, Mrs. Smith was not an angel, by any means. She had some household ways that angels would have considered out of place, not to mention her name, which was the reverse of poetical to say nothing of the seraphic. Sometimes the good woman scolded her husband roundly, and once or twice—I tell this with infinite reluctance—she had been known to snatch Jerusha Maria from the soft depths of her cradle, after that young lady had cried till her face was of a lovely purple, and shake her till the feathers would have flown, had her mother been an angel, and thus endowed her with the plumage of a seraph.