INTRODUCTION.

It has been several years since Aunt Kitty last presented herself to her young friends, yet she hopes that she has not been forgotten by them, and that her reappearance will give them pleasure. She introduces to them in the present volume no new acquaintance, but she offers to them, in one group, all who formerly interested them. Blind Alice and her young benefactress—Jessie Graham and her ardent, generous, but inconsiderate friend, Florence Arnott—Grace and Clara—and Ellen Leslie, will here be found together. They have been carefully prepared for this second presentation to the public by Aunt Kitty's own hand. It is hoped that her efforts for their improvement have not been wholly unsuccessful, and that they will be found not altogether unworthy teachers of those lessons of benevolence and truth, generosity, justice and self-government, which she designed to convey through them.

New York, Feb. 15th, 1847.

BLIND ALICE.

Good morning, my young friend! A merry Christmas, or happy New Year, or at least a pleasant holiday to you;—for holiday I hope it is, as it is on such festivals, when there is no danger of lessons being forgotten, that I best love to see around me a group of happy children, all the happier for having Aunt Kitty to direct their plays—to show them the pleasantest walks, or, when they are tired both of playing and walking, to sit with them by the fireside and tell them some entertaining story. I am never however entirely without such young companions. I have always with me an orphan niece—Harriet Armand—who is about ten years old. Her father and mother died when she was quite an infant, and she has ever since been to me as my own child. Then I have another niece—Mary Mackay—just six years old, the merriest little girl on whom the sun ever shone, who, as her father lives quite near me, spends part—her mother says the largest part—of every day with me. Besides these, there are Susan May and Lucy Ellis, who, living in a neat, pretty village near

us, seldom let a fine day pass without seeing Harriet and me.

I am the very intimate and confidential friend of all these little girls. To me they intrust all their secrets. I know all the pleasant surprises they intend for each other; am consulted on birth-day presents, and have helped them out of many troubles, which, though they might seem little to larger people, were to them very serious affairs. I encourage them to tell me, not only what they say and do, but what they think and feel. Sometimes when they are a little fretful and discontented because their friends have not done just as they wished, we talk the matter over together, and find that they have themselves been unreasonable, and then the fretfulness is dismissed, and they try by a very pleasant manner to make amends for their hard thoughts and unjust feelings. If any one has really injured them, or been unkind to them, and I find them too angry easily to forgive it, I bid them put on their bonnets, and we go out together to look for their good-humor. Then, as we see the gay flowers, and inhale the sweet perfumes, and listen to the

merry birds that hop around us, twittering and chirping, my little friends forget to be angry; and while I talk to them of the good Father in heaven, who made all these beautiful and pleasant things for his children on earth, they feel such love and thankfulness to him, that it seems easy for his sake even to forgive those who have done them wrong. These are Aunt Kitty's lessons,—they are lessons for the heart, and such as I hope all my readers will be pleased to learn.

The walk which these little girls and I best love is to a small house, about half a mile from mine. Small as it is, it looks so pleasantly with its white walls, (it is freshly whitewashed every spring,) and green shutters, its neat paling and pretty flower-garden, peeping from the midst of green trees, that any one might be contented to live there. In this house lives a widow, with one only child, a daughter, a year older than my niece Harriet. I will tell you their story, which I think will make you feel almost as much interested in them as we do, and you will then understand why we like them so well, and visit them so often.

About three years ago, my little friends, Susan May and Lucy Ellis, began to talk a great deal of a child who had lately come to the school in the village, which they attended. They said her name was Alice Scott; that her teachers thought a great deal of her because she learned her lessons so well, and that her schoolmates loved her because she was so good-humored and merry. She had told them that she used to live a great way off, and that her father and mother had left her other home because it was sickly, and had come here because they had heard it was a healthy place. The girls said Alice looked very well herself, but that Mrs. Scott was pale, and that Alice said she was often sick. "A stranger and sick," thought I, "then I must go to see her"—and so I did, very soon.

I found her a pleasing, as well as a good woman, though she seemed sad, except when Alice was with her, and then she was happy and cheerful enough. She told me that her husband was a carpenter, and as he was an industrious and honest man, he had as much work given to him as he could do, and would have made money enough for them to live on very comfortably, had he not been so often ill himself, and obliged to pay so much to the doctors who attended his family when they were ill. This made them very poor, but it was not being poor, she said, that made her look and feel sorrowful,—it was the thought of three sweet little babies, all younger than Alice, who had died and been buried side by side in the green churchyard of the place from which they had moved. Then she would check herself, and say how very wrong it was for her to grieve so much, when God had still left her dear Alice with her, and she knew her babies were all happy in heaven.

Mrs. Scott was a very neat and careful woman, and poor as they were, she made her home quite comfortable—a great deal more comfortable than that of many people who have more money in their purses, and better furniture in their houses. Their little court-yard too was filled with pretty flowers, for Alice loved gardening, and was never so happy as when cutting her finest carnations and roses to dress her mother's parlor, and make nosegays for her young friends. And yet Alice was always happy, and so you felt she was the moment you looked at her. She was now a healthy, fine-looking child of nine years old. Her very eyes seemed to sparkle with pleasure; she never walked when she was alone, but bounded along like a young fawn. Her voice was very sweet, and was often heard, when she was with her young companions, ringing out in a gay laugh, or when she was by herself, singing some of the little hymns which her mother had taught her. Yet, gay as Alice was, her laughter was hushed, her bounding step became cautious and noiseless, and her bright eyes

were full of tears in a moment, if she saw either her father or her mother suffering from any cause. When they first came to the village, Mrs. Scott was subject to very distressing attacks of pain in the head, and it was touching to see the playful Alice changed into a quiet, watchful nurse.

A year had passed away, and Mrs. Scott was healthier and happier and dear little Alice livelier than ever, when many people in our village and in the country around, and especially many children, became ill with a very dangerous disease, called scarlet fever. My little niece Harriet was one of the first who had it, and she was so ill with it that we feared she would die. As soon as she was well enough to travel, I took her to her grandfather's, about twenty miles off, for a change of air. When we left home, Mr. and Mrs. Scott and Alice were still well. Alice, who loved Harriet very much, wished greatly to see her before she went away, if only to bid her good-by, but I would not consent for fear she should take the disease. Her mother however gave her permission to walk out on the road by which we were to pass, and take one look at Harriet, as we drove by. So when we were about half a mile from home, there stood Alice by the road-side, with a bunch of flowers in her hand. As we passed she threw the flowers into the carriage and called out "Good-by,

good-by; dear Harriet, I hope you will come back soon, and well."

I raised Harriet from the pillow on which she was leaning in a corner of the carriage, to the window, that she might see Alice; and as I looked at Alice's red cheeks and smiling face and lively motion, while she ran along by the side of the carriage for a few minutes, I felt sadder than ever to see Harriet so pale and weak.

Now, my little readers, if any of you have a grandfather and grandmother, and have ever gone to visit them after having been ill, you will know how very glad Harriet's grandfather and grandmother were to see her, and how anxious they were to gratify and amuse her. Harriet got well very slowly, and was obliged for some weeks to be much confined to the house, and often to suffer pain. She was a good child, and bore all this so patiently, that when at the end of six weeks we were about returning home, her grandfather gave her a gold piece, worth two dollars and a half, bidding her spend it as she liked. This, you know, was a great deal of money for a little girl, and as Harriet had never had half so much at one time, she was quite wild with delight, thinking at first that it would buy every thing for which she had ever wished. On calculation, however, she found it would take it all to buy one such large wax doll as a little girl who had lately visited her had brought with her. The wax doll she was determined to have, for she thought it by

far the most beautiful thing she had ever seen, and so her money was at once disposed of in her own mind.

During the first part of her ride home, Harriet talked of nothing but her doll, which I was to get from the city for her as soon as I could. She had not quite decided what would be the prettiest name for it, or the most becoming color for its dress, when we stopped at a friend's house, about eight miles from our home, where we were to rest for two or three hours. Here there was a very clever girl, a little older than Harriet, who brought out all her books and toys to amuse her. Among the books were several of those entertaining little volumes, called the Boys' and Girls' Library, which Harriet had never read. The little girl offered to lend them to her, and I allowed her to take one of them, as she promised to be very careful of it. As soon as we were in the carriage, Harriet begged me to read for her from this little book; and she was not only much amused with it, but I was able to point out to her some very useful lessons it contained.

We did not arrive at home till after sunset, and as Harriet was much fatigued, she was soon put to bed. Her room opened into mine, and I went in early in the morning to see how she was. She was already awake, and gave me no time to speak to her, for as soon as she saw me, she cried out, "Now, Aunt Kitty, I know what to do with my money."

"Why, my love," said I, "I thought you were going to buy a doll with it, like Eliza Lewis's, and you know I told you that such a doll would take it all."

"Oh yes, I know all that, Aunt Kitty, but I've something a great deal better to do with it now,—I am going to buy books with it. It will buy five volumes of the Boys' and Girls' Library; for see here, Aunt Kitty," showing me the price which was marked on a leaf of the book she had brought home the day before, "see here, this only cost fifty cents, and I've counted, and there are five times fifty cents in my two dollars and a half."

"And are you very sure," said I, "that you will always like the books better than the doll, and that when you have finished reading them you will not feel sorry for having changed your mind?"

"Oh no! I am very sure I shall not, for you know I could only play with my doll now and then, and if I kept it all to myself I should soon grow tired of it, and if I let the other girls play with it, it would soon get spoiled or broken, and I should have nothing left for my money; but it will take me a long time to read through so many new books, and when they get spoiled or torn up, if I remember what was in them, I shall still have something for my gold piece. And then you know, Aunt Kitty, you cannot play with my doll, but you can read my books."

I was always gratified that my little girl should wish me to share in her pleasures, and so I told her, adding that I thought her choice of the books rather than the doll was very wise. At the end of the book which Harriet had just read, were the names of all the volumes of the Boys' and Girls' Library that had yet been published. Harriet turned to this leaf, and began to show me which of them she intended to buy. I told her, however, that she had better not think any more of them just now, but that after breakfast she might write down their names and give them to me, and I would send for them to a bookseller in the city. In the mean time I reminded her that she had not yet thanked her Heavenly Father for his kind care of her while she was away, or asked him to bless her through this day.

I then left her, as she was dressed, and went to the breakfast parlor, intending to put some questions to the servant who was there about my neighbors, which I had no time to ask the evening before. I now heard very sad news indeed. The servant told me that a great many children, and even some grown persons, had died with scarlet fever. Among the last was Mr. Scott; and Alice had been near death,—indeed was still very ill. This news made me very sad, and when Harriet heard it she forgot both her gold coin and the books it was to buy, while she begged to go with me to see the sick child. As I was no longer afraid of her taking the disease, since persons usually have the scarlet fever but once, I consented, and we set out as soon as we had breakfasted.

As we came in sight of the house, we found it looking very gloomy. Though the morning was pleasant and the weather warm, the windows were all closely shut. The little court-yard looked neglected; it was full of weeds. Alice's flowers seemed to have withered on their stalks, and wanted trimming and training sadly. We did not see a creature, or hear a sound, and every thing was so still and seemed so lifeless, that it made me feel melancholy, and Harriet appeared a little afraid, for she drew close to my side and took hold of my hand. When we came quite near, I found the door was ajar, and we went in at once without knocking. The parlor door stood open, and I looked in, hoping to find some one there who would tell Mrs. Scott of my coming, as I was afraid we might disturb Alice by going straight to her room. There was no one in the parlor, and bidding Harriet wait there for me, I stepped very softly on, to the room door. I intended to knock at this door so lightly, that though Mrs. Scott might hear me, it would not wake Alice if she were asleep. When I

came near the room, however, I heard a sound like some one speaking very low, yet not whispering. The door was not latched, and every thing was so quiet that I stood still and listened. I not only knew that it was Alice's voice, but I could even hear what she said. Her tone was very feeble, as if from her own great weakness, yet sharp, like that in which persons speak who are frightened or distressed. She appeared, poor child, to be both frightened and distressed. It seemed to me that she was complaining to her mother of the darkness and silence around her, while her mother did not answer her at all, but every now and then moaned as if in great pain.

"Mother, dear mother," said Alice, "speak to me; and open the window, mother—pray open the window and give me some light. I am afraid, mother—I am afraid, it is so dark and still—so like the grave."

For a moment the child was silent, as if waiting for her mother's answer; but as no one spoke to her, she cried out again, in still sharper tones, "Oh, mother, mother, where are you? Wake up, mother, dear mother, and open the window and let me look once, only once, on the blessed light, and see your face; and then mother, I will be quiet and go to sleep, and you may shut it all up again."

I began now to be quite anxious about Mrs. Scott, who I thought must be ill herself, or she would certainly answer Alice. Besides, I could not stand the poor child's distress any longer, and thinking it would be a relief to her to hear anybody speak, I pushed the door open and went in. The window was shut, as poor Alice supposed, but still there was light enough for me to see her very plainly. Her face was as white as the pillow on which it was lying, and her long and thick dark hair fell around it in great confusion. This, and the terror she felt, made her look very wild. Mrs. Scott was kneeling at the foot of the bed, her hands were clasped over her head, and her face was buried in the bedclothes. Alice's eyes were opened very widely, and their look, together with what I had heard, told me the painful truth at once. Alice was blind—perfectly blind,—an affliction that sometimes follows scarlet fever. Till this morning she had been either out of her senses, or so low and stupid from the disease, that she did not notice any

thing. But now she was better and stronger, and having heard the doctor bid her mother good morning, when he came in to see her, she was first surprised by the long-continued darkness, and then frightened by her mother's silence and distress. And poor Mrs. Scott! she had long feared for her child's eyes, as Alice would complain of the darkness when the broad daylight was around her, and grieve that she could not see her mother's face when she was weeping over her pillow, or pressing her cold hand on her hot and aching head. But the fever gave Alice many strange fancies, and Mrs. Scott had hoped that this was one of them, till this morning, when the doctor told her that her precious child was blind, quite blind, and must, he feared, be so always.

I have told you that Mrs. Scott had had many sorrows; that she had been sick and poor, had lost three sweet children, and last and worst of all, her husband; yet she had never complained; she had always said, "My Father in heaven loves me, and he sees this sorrow will do me good, or he would not let it happen to me." But she was now weak and worn with grief and fatigue, and when she first heard that her gay, laughing Alice must now be always in darkness—that she could never again see the green earth, or the beautiful flowers, or the bright skies she had so loved to look upon—that, instead of running, jumping, and dancing along, she must now be led by another, or feel her way very slowly and carefully, she was so distressed, so very, very sad, that she had no power to answer Alice, except by low moans.

Much of what I have now told you I heard afterwards; but I saw enough at once to show me what I had best do. Now I want my little readers to mark what I say, and remember whenever any thing happens to another which terrifies or distresses them, they are not to run away from it, but to try to do something to remove it. It no doubt makes you feel very badly to see another suffering, but then you know they feel a great deal worse than you do, and if you will only think more of them than of yourself, you will generally find something you can do to help them.