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 contrived something, and so she would not be baffled in a rich merchant's luxurious establishment in the city of New-York. An old sofa-cushion was brought from the garret, and various articles of apparel substituted for pillow and blankets. Betsy then put Lucy into her bed, agreeing with her bedfellow, the seamstress, that they would alternately occupy the pallet on the floor. Lucy now reaped the reward of the kindness she had shown these women when they were strangers in the family. To her frequent repetitions of "How kind you are, Betsy—how much trouble I give you!" Betsy would reply, "Shut up, child—its contrary to Scripture and reason to be 'forgetful of good turns.' Many a time have your weary little legs run up and down stairs to show me where you put or to find this or that fiddle-de-dee of Mrs. Ardley's—and, after all, maybe it was not that, but something else she wanted. She often put me in mind of a fellow that was laying onto his ox, and screaming haw! haw! 'He is hawing,' said a man, who ached to see the poor beast whipped. 'Oh, I meant gee!' said the fellow."

In spite of a good physician's advice, and all the care her voluntary and most kind nurses could give her, Lucy's disease, though abated, continued. Two weeks passed away. How long they seemed to poor Lucy, who, in addition to the usual pains and penalties of sickness, felt the constant dread of adding to her mother's burdens, and the failure of the rent-money from her loss of time. "Our Father in Heaven will not forsake us—mother has often said so—and I will try to remember this when I feel too bad," thought Lucy; and with such