turns in watching at her side; but she seemed so weak and powerless, so feverish at times, that Mrs. Clare was very distressed about her.

Not a word had been said to the little girl concerning her fall, no one asked, "How came you to lose your footing?" for their sole thought was how to get her well; neither did White Rose herself make any mention of that unfortunate afternoon excepting when they brought the doll she had held in her arms as she rolled down the long flight of stone steps, and she saw the cracks in that favourite's waxen neck and arms, she mur mured, "Poor Blanche! she was hurt too."

It was then with a little surprise, about the week's end, that Mrs. Clare heard the child say, "Mamma, why does not Red Rose come to see me?"

66 Do you think you can talk to her yet, my darling?" was the reply. "Mr. Grant says you must be so very, very quiet; and perhaps while you are so weak it is better for your cousin not to come."

"I should like to see her," said the low voice. "I can tell you that poor Red Rose was terribly distressed that sad day," continued Mrs. Clare. "She was so frightened about

you that she slipped away from us all, and her father found her sobbing and crying at the other end of the village. Even now, dear, your aunt tells me that Red Rose is most unhappy; she does not care to play, or to go out, or to be amused; and instead of chattering as usual, she has grown quite silent, and exclaims twenty times a day, "I wish White Rose would get well."

Now, if at the commencement of our tale you thought that both the children I chose for its subjects were altogether naughty, and without any good qualities at all for you to imitate, I am going to show you your mistake.

Have you not heard it said that there is good in everyone, even though it lies deeply buried under a growth of evil? Well, then, I am sure that in children there is always a great deal of good, if we could only dig it up, and clear away the weeds which have hidden it from our sight.

Rose Clare was by nature proud, passionate, wilful, but she had not that meanness which makes some boys and girls such willing talebearers, such delighted little "carriers" of their companions' faults and falls to anyone who will grant them a hearing.

Lying there in her pain and weakness, she remembered perfectly that it was to her little cousin's hand she owed it all, but within her heart she murmured, "I need not tell; no one has asked me. Poor Red Rose is quite sorry now, I am sure.”

Does not that make you like her better than you did? It has that effect upon me. I think that in man or woman, boy or girl, there is nothing so worthy of admiration as the spirit which truly forgives, forgives so fully that it will not even speak of the injury done; it seems so like our own dear Saviour, who when despised and scorned and maltreated, never uttered one accusing word.

What would have been easier than for Rose Clare to say, "Mother, I did not fall by accident, my cousin pushed me;" and I feel quite proud to tell you these words never

came.

That was no harmful guarding of a secret, for there was nothing but good motive in it. However excellent is the resolve to "tell mother everything," I am quite sure any sensible child can perfectly comprehend what a difference there is in being candid about our own faults, and being candid about the faults

of some one else. We are bound to acknowledge what we do wrong to God and to good parents; we are never told that it is right to spread about the wrong which is upon the conscience of others.

So White Rose was not going to explain what Red Rose had been guilty of, and there came into her heart such tender thoughts of that little absent cousin that she was only anxious to kiss her and tell her not to mind, not to grieve about the past.

"May Red Rose come?" she said; and at length, to give her pleasure, Mrs. Clare was beguiled into promising, only with the condition it must be "just for a minute," and also that it could not be that day, when her little daughter seemed so very weak and suffering.

When Rose Dunn knew that she had been specially asked for by her cousin, and that on the morrow she might see her, it gave her no no pleasure at all. She loved White Rose, certainly, loved her better now than in the past, too; but she felt as if she dared not go into that sick room with the miserable consciousness that but for her own passion the suffering and pain would never have come.

"Are you not pleased, dear?" asked her mother. "I fancied there would be nothing which you so much wished for as to see poor Rose after this long week in which you have been without a playfellow."

Red Rose looked down on the carpet, as if there was something especially interesting in the pattern of it. "Does she look very ill, very different?" she asked, hesitatingly.

"There is nothing to fear," said Mrs. Dunn, who now supposed her little girl had a painful recollection of her cousin's appearance when she was carried in unconscious after her fall. "She is very weak; but she will know you quite well, and be able to give you a smile, I

am sure."

Rose said no more; but she never wished for any "to-morrow less than for this particular one; and when her mother said, "Your Aunt Clare wishes us to go now," she turned quite pale and trembled all over.

However, excuses were impossible, they went in at the hall-door from which Red Rose had escaped upon that memorable afternoon, up the thickly-carpeted stairs, and so to the room where the sick child had lain now for nine dreary days.