the paper she put it into her bosom. "I'm sure I thank you with all my
heart, and shall always try to do my duty by them," she said.

Here Mr. Armstrong rose, and Faith, putting down the child, that
seemed loth to leave her, spoke in a low tone some parting words of
consolation.

"I'm sure you're very good; I'm sure I'm very much obleeged to you,"
was all Mrs. Sill could say.

On their way home Faith spoke of the promising appearance of the
children, and of what the hopes of the mother must be on their
account.

"It is true they are all that are left to her," said Mr. Armstrong,
"and what hopes she has of earthly happiness must be built on them.
But who can look into to-morrow? A few days ago, never dreaming of
misfortune, she exulted in the enjoyment of her husband and little
boys. The first is taken away, and none know how soon the latter may
be. So joys and sorrows are mingled together. At this moment she is
more miserable for having been happy, and so great is the misery, it
outweighs all the happiness of former years. Such is the nature of
pain and pleasure. A pang of the former, an instant's acute agony, may
be equivalent to hours of what is called enjoyment. We are so made. We
may hope for happiness: we are certain of sorrow. We must seek
after the one: the other is sure to find us. When I look round, what
evidences of wretchedness do I see! Alas, it is indeed a fallen world,
and the ground is cursed for man's sake."

"You take a gloomy view, father," said Faith. "Look beyond. Are we not