"Why, aunty, I can't see how you could ever dream of such a thing; you know bow I despise a sloven; if I thought that I could ever become such a disgusting person, I would burn my papers at once, and consign my poor little attempts to the oblivion which they may reach in another way; but, dear aunt, really in earnest, I promise you to wash my face and hands, and comb my hair at least once a day, and not to disgrace my name." Throwing her arms around Aunt Matilda's neck, she kissed her affectionately, and said, "Now confess, aunty, did not you think first, 'And what will Mrs. Grundy say?' Is not that the truth?" And Maddy was victor as usual of the whole ground; father, aunt, and all who had read her little book. "Write to your heart's content, Maddy, only avoid those follies which are so often seen." The little school prospered. Effie aided as far as her strength allowed. Total blindness had spread its dark mantle over the dear girl. It was truly a mournful sight to behold the desolate orphan, groping her way about the house, feeling by the banisters, and along the walls; or sitting with folded hands, and meek submissive face, generally in Madeline's sitting room. Her health was evidently on the decline; a feebler step, failing appetite, longings for the better land marked her approach to her Father's house. She had learned to knit very expertly, even without eyesight, and it was with feelings of humble contentment that she could thus employ her fingers, for many a nice pair of warm stockings were thus provided for their little pupils. Seated in Madeline's favorite room, she could smell the fragrance of the flowers, hear the warbling of birds, and the sweet voice of her dear friend at her daily practice. Her chapter in the Bible was read to her every morning, by Madeline, who would then arrange her chair, get Effie's knitting, and busy herself about her own employments. "Will you get me a bunch of heather, Maddy? I want it near me; it was my mother's flower, you know." "Here it is, Effie;" and placing it in her hands, Madeline kissed the sweet pale face, while the blind girl pressed it to her lips with sweet memories of the departed. "Is it a bright morning, Madeline?" asked the orphan. "Bright as a May morning can be, Effie; the dew is yet on the sweet flowers, and all is charming and refreshing." "I can well afford to be contented with my present blindness, Madeline; for I shall soon see the brighter scenes, and pluck the flowers of Paradise; will you sing for me that sweet hymn, 'Thy will be done?'" and as Madeline poured out the plaintive melody of that touching air, Effie leaned back in her chair, with a sweet placid look of perfect happiness. "Madeline, it is a precious experience 'to know no will but his,' willing to live, joyful to die; I would live for Roland, but die to be with Jesus and my mother; by-the-bye, Madeline, to-morrow is the day when we may expect my brother; did he not say on Thursday?"