"I have seen a good many people," said Alison, pausing, "but I never
did see any one so happy! Others are always wanting something; she
never is. Every enjoyment seems to be tenfold to her what it is to
other people; she sees the hopeful side of every sorrow. No burthen
is a burthen when one has carried it to her."

As Alison spoke, she pushed open the narrow green door of the little
lodging-house, and there issued a weak, sweet sound of voices: "The
strain upraise of joy and praise." It was the same that had met
their ears at the school-door, but the want of body in the voices was
fully compensated by the heartfelt ring, as if here indeed was
praise, not practice.

"Aunt Ailie! O Aunt Ailie!" cried the child, as the room-door opened
and showed the little choir, consisting of herself, her aunt, and the
small maid of the house, "you should not have come, you were not to
hear us till Trinity Sunday."

Explanations were given, and Miss Curtis was welcomed, but Alison,
still too much moved for ordinary conversation, slipped into the
bedroom adjoining, followed by her sister's quick and anxious eye,
and half-uttered inquiry.

"I am afraid it is my fault," said Grace; "she has been telling me
about your accident."

"Poor Ailie," said Ermine, "she never will receive kindness without
having that unlucky story out! It is just one of the things that
get so cruelly exaggerated by consequences. It was one moment's
petulance that might have caused a fright and been forgotten ever