With a cry that rent the air, Maggie's father rushed out of the door and
into his own house, and in a moment his wife and his dear little child
were clasped tight in his arms--his shrieks of hysterical laughter,
mingled with the great sobs that convulsed his frame, showing, too
plainly, alas! that joy had finished what grief began; for now he had
indeed lost his senses. The sudden revulsion had been too much; but,
after a while, the gentle soothings of his wife and the loving caresses
of Maggie restored him to himself; and soon he was ready to listen to
the wonderful account of their escape--many times interrupting the
narrative to fold his little Maggie, with tears, to his breast, and to
thank God again and again for the blessing of such a child.

And now, dear little reader, Maggie has grown up to be a young lady. She
has the same dark, thoughtful eyes and transparent purity of complexion.
She flits about her father's house like a sunbeam, bringing joy and
delight into his heart, and her voice issues from her beautiful mouth so
sweet and clear that it seems like the singing of a lark. With the
thrilling memory of the past ever before him, her father oftentimes
gazes into her sweet young face with an earnest tenderness impossible to
describe.

I wish every girl and boy that will read this could have known Maggie
when she was a child; they would have wondered how such a delicate
little creature could have shown so much courage and endurance. It seems
incredible, and yet every word I have written is true.

I also wish that I could tell them her whole name; but I promised, when
permission was given me to write this account of heroism, I would not
tell her name, or even where she lived. But I _will_ tell this much:
She lives, at this very moment, on a beautiful island, very near the
city of New York; and she is so modest and retiring that her very
next-door neighbor does not suspect he is living close to THE CHILD
HEROINE!

AUNT MARY.

A SKETCH BY A GIRL OF FIFTEEN.

It is my opinion, that in spite of my being quite a simple young girl, I
might, without exciting much surprise, personate the character of a
respectable old lady; for all kinds of antiquities seem to agree
extremely well with me.

Thus, an old book has a peculiar charm for me; an old dress always sets
better than a new one; and, certainly, every one will allow, that there
is no comfort in the world equal to a pair of old slippers.

But most