His uncle was an invalid, obliged continually to recline on his couch, but he was always cheerful, always happy. A sister said of him, that if you put him on the top of a rock he would be happy; and the secret of this was, that his heart was filled with love to God, and that he had constant communion with his blessed Saviour. The peace of God lay upon his countenance; he had no troubled or vexing thoughts. He loved to read and hear about the progress of Christ’s kingdom, and about what good men are doing to bring about the fulfillment of that prayer, “Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven.” Norman was very busy for several days, copying his sketches of Niagara, and doing them in pastil, and his uncle took great interest in the progress of his work. One day they went with a clergyman, Aunt Ellen’s brother, to a seminary, built on a commanding eminence above the town. After seeing the scholars do their sums very rapidly on the black-board, they went to the upper story of the building, and looked upon an extensive view. To the north the rapid river, with its high banks and wooded islands; to the east, the prairie, stretching out far in the distance. The spires and buildings of the town toward the south, with the fine arches of the railing embankments, while the river, whose falls filled the air with sound, was spanned with the noble arches of the railroad bridge, and the broken ones of several ruined bridges, swept away by the recent floods. After leaving the seminary they wandered in the oak grove that adorns the bluff upon which it stands, and looked down on the ravine which bounds the grounds to the north. “Now, mother,” said Norman, one morning after breakfast, “for a walk on the prairies.” “I am ready,” replied Mrs. Lester; “it is a cool, gray morning; just the day for such a ramble.” On and on they wandered; Norman running to and fro, as the brilliant tint of some flower caught his eye, made his mother the bearer of all his floral treasures. A fine bouquet he had after a while, yellow lupins, the blue spiderwort, the purple phlox, an orange flower very much like the wallflower, and the painted cup, made classic by Bryant’s verse: “Scarlet tufts Are glowing in the green, like flakes of fire; The wanderers of the prairies know them well, And call that brilliant flower, the Painted Cup.” They first walked toward the south, where they could have glimpses of the river; but at length they directed their course to the east, to an octagon house, that stood like a light-house on a hill. Crossing the railroad, they paused a while to see the gravel-train get its load of sand from the banks. “There,” said Norman, as the locomotive gave a snort or two, as if in impatience at the pause; “there stands the grand old fellow to be looked at, as Mr. Beecher says.”