Little Emily Robinson sat by Edward's side with the air of an
accomplished nurse. As well as the duskiness of the chamber would
permit she watched all his motions and each varying expression of his
face, and tried to anticipate her patient's wishes before his tongue
could utter them. Yet it was noticeable that the child manifested an
indescribable awe and disquietude whenever she fixed her eyes on the
bandage; for, to her simple and affectionate heart, it seemed as if her
dear friend Edward was separated from her because she could not see his
eyes. A friend's eyes tell us many things which could never be spoken
by the tongue.

George, likewise, looked awkward and confused, as stout and healthy boys
are accustomed to do in the society of the sick or afflicted. Never
having felt pain or sorrow, they are abashed, from not knowing how to
sympathize with the sufferings of others.

"Well, my dear Edward," inquired Mrs. Temple, "is Your chair quite
comfortable? and has your little nurse provided for all your wants? If
so, your father is ready to begin his stories."

"O, I am very well now," answered Edward, with a faint smile. "And my
ears have not forsaken me, though my eyes are good for nothing. So
pray, dear father, begin."

It was Mr. Temple's design to tell the children a series of true
stories, the incidents of which should be taken from the childhood and
early life of eminent people. Thus he hoped to bring George, and
Edward, and Emily into closer acquaintance with the famous persons who
have lived in other times by showing that they also had been children
once. Although Mr. Temple was scrupulous to relate nothing but what was