Harry wept, too; and after dinner he almost feared to enter the chamber, and behold the wreck which disease had made of this bright and beautiful form. Removing the wrapper from the book he had brought--a volume of sweet poems, entitled "Angel Songs"--he followed Mr. Bryant into the sick girl's chamber. "Ah, Harry, I am delighted to see you!" exclaimed she, in a whisper, for her diseased throat rendered articulation difficult and painful. "I am sorry to see you so sick, Julia," replied Harry, taking the wasted hand she extended to him. "I am better, Harry. I feel as though I should get well now." "I hope you will." "You don't know how much I have thought of you while I lay here; how I wished you were my brother, and could come in every day and see me," she continued, with a faint smile. "I wish I could." "Now tell me how you get along in Boston." "Very well; but your father says I must not talk much with you now. I have brought you a little book," and he placed it in her hand. "How good you are, Harry! 'Angel Songs.' How pretty! Now, Harry, you must read me one of the angel songs." "I will; but I can't read very well," said he, as he opened the volume. But he did read exceedingly well. The piece he selected was a very pretty and a very touching little song; and Harry's feelings were so deeply moved by the pathetic sentiments of the poem and their adaptation to the circumstances of the case, that he was quite eloquent. When he had finished, Mrs. Bryant interfered to prevent further conversation; and Julia, though she had a great deal to say to her young friend, cheerfully yielded to her mother's wishes, and Harry reluctantly left the room. Towards night he was permitted to see her again, when he read several of the angel songs to her, and gave her a brief account of the events of his residence in Boston. She was pleased with his earnestness, and smiled approvingly upon him for the moral triumphs he had achieved. The reward of all his struggles with trial and temptation was lavishly bestowed in her commendation, and if fidelity had not been its own reward, he could have accepted her approval as abundant compensation for all he had endured. There was no silly sentiment in Harry's composition; he had read no novels, seen no plays, knew nothing of romance even "in real life." The homage he yielded to the fair and loving girl was an unaffected reverence for simple purity and goodness; that which the True Heart and the True Life never fail to call forth whenever they exert their power. On the following morning, Julia's condition was very much improved, and the physician spoke confidently of a favorable issue. Harry was permitted to spend an hour by her bedside, inhaling the pure spirit that pervaded the soul of the sick one. She was so much better that her father proposed to visit the city, to attend to some urgent business, which had been long deferred by her illness; and an opportunity was thus afforded for Harry to return.