and slipping her hand into his, said, "I'm ready, father. I'll be a first-rate leader for you."

So they went out together; the father, with his basket filled with papers of pins, cord, &c., hanging on his arm, holding by the hand his little child, whose bright eyes were to be a light in his darkness through all the weary march of the long day.

But although Rosy went with a willing heart to her task, she was very quiet and subdued, walking by his side as gravely as a woman. Once before she had led him out on his daily round, but then she had skipped along laughing and talking merrily, or singing snatches of sweet songs and hymns, until her joyousness had so infected him that his day's labour seemed only a pastime. But to-day she was very still, scarcely speaking except when he addressed her. He did not wonder at that, however, for his own heart was sad as he thought of his faithful guide and companion lying before the stove at home, probably dying, and he knew that Rosy loved the old dog dearly.

But while Rosy thought sorrowfully of Spot, there was another sore trouble weighing upon her mind, and making her usually bright face so solemn. If the pain which she felt had been only in her heart, she might have forgotten her own grief in that of her father, and have tried to cheer and comfort him; but she had something worse to bear. Her conscience was hard at work. The angry words which she had spoken to Will, the blow which she had given him, rested heavily upon it, and it could not rest. In vain she told herself that Will was a cruel, unkind boy, and that it was very wicked for him to speak as he had done of his blind father. That was all true; but she felt that it made her sin none the less. She had no right to strike him because he was wicked; and she knew full well, hard as she tried to excuse herself, that it was passion, and nothing else, which had led her to speak and act as she had done.