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A. Fraser del.

The Noonday Voundry Rest.

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ON a late visit to England, I spent a week at the country mansion of my widowed friend, Mrs. SANDFORD, surrounded by the beautiful scenery of the Thames, in the neighborhood of Greenwich. The hospital, filled with veterans of the British navy, the Observatory, celebrated in all the civilized world, and the park, once the hunting-ground of Queen Elizabeth, with tame deer still browsing in the shade of its ancient trees, afforded sufficient attractions to a transatlantic stranger; but the society of my friend was to me the superior charm of the week. She was somewhat advanced in years, and her position in society had afforded her an extensive survey of life, which she had improved by a habit of accurate reflection. She had a remarkable discernment of character and (what is seldom combined with, but never necessarily separate from this rare power) a genuine benevolence, her characteristic trait, which softened and mellowed her entire nature and her very tones. Withal, she was much addicted to books, and possessed that universal excellence of her sex, a ready utterance. A sweet little niece, named Emily, and her two brothers, George and Henry, were spending the dog-days with her at the time of my visit. Accompanied by these, we took a daily walk after dinner among the beautiful landscapes of the neighborhood.

One fine afternoon our promenade was extended much farther than usual. The breezes were refreshing, the conversation of Mrs. Sandford was more than ordinarily interesting, and the birds, the butterflies and flowers along the hedgerows, allured the children away, unconscious of time or fatigue. As we turned a corner, we saw a little boy apparently about eleven years of age, limping on a crutch. Mrs. Sandford hastened to the child with eagerness and addressed him in the most affectionate language. He was introduced to the children as little Willie. When we parted, to return home, George seemed much concerned to know the reason of his aunt's deep interest in the lame boy.

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Why, who could help feeling for him,' exclaimed Henry; 'he looks so mild and good, and then he is lame also, poor boy.'

There was indeed something in the kind, delicate features, and mild, blue eye and tender tones of little Willie, something of goodness and sadness, which appealed at once to the hearts of all who met him, and assured them, that he possessed a sweet and affectionate spirit, and also had suffered much.

'It is right, my dears,' replied Mrs. Sandford, to the exclamation of Henry, 'to love amiable children, and to pity the unfortunate; but something more than these excites my sympathy for Willie. I never see him with his little crutch without being deeply affected by the recollection of the history of his lameness. He has been remarkably useful; he has been the means of rescuing from vice and ruin his own father, and of blessing all his family.'

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Why, aunt, how did he do it?' cried Emily.

'I will tell you when I have leisure, and it will be a good story for you. There is, my friend,' continued Mrs. Sandford, addressing me, 'a little history connected with the family of this child, which exhibits rare excellences in his mother as well as himself, and it is difficult to say which is most admirable. Though in humble life, she is one of the most remarkable women of my acquaintance. This, however, should be no marvel; it has long been my conviction that women of the middling classes, having practical duties and a sense of respon

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