l spirit confine itself to this. To listen to him, you
would have believed him an especial object of divine as well as
human benevolence--all things working for his good. The doctor used
to say that No. 12 had a "mania for happiness;" but it was a mania,
that, in creating esteem for its victim, infused fresh courage into
all that came within its range.

I think I still see him seated on the side of his bed, with his
little black silk cap, his spectacles and the well-worn volume,
which he never ceased perusing. Every morning, the first rays of the
sun rested on his bed, always to him a fresh subject of rejoicing
and thankfulness to God. To witness his gratitude, one might suppose
that the sun was rising for him alone. I need hardly say, that he
soon interested himself in my cure, and regularly made inquiry
respecting its progress. He always found something cheering to
say--something to inspire patience and hope, himself a living
commentary on his words. When I looked at this poor motionless
figure, those distorted limbs, and, crowning all, that smiling
countenance, I had not courage to be angry, or even to complain. At
each painful crisis, he would exclaim: "One minute, and it will be
over. Relief will soon follow. _Every day has its to-morrow!_"

I had one good and true friend--a fellow-workman, who used sometimes
to spare an hour to visit me, and he took great delight in
cultivating an acquaintance with No. 12. As if attracted by a
kindred spirit, he never passed his bed without pausing to offer his
cordial salutation; and then he would whisper to me: "He is a saint
on earth; and not content with gaining Paradise himself, must win it
for others also. Such people should have monuments erected to them,
known and read of all men. In observing such a character, we feel
ashamed of our own happiness--we feel how comparatively little we
deserve it. Is there anything I can do to prove my regard for this
good, poor No. 12?"

"Just try among the bookstalls," I replied, "and find the second
volume of that book you see him reading. It is now more than six
years since he lost it, and ever since he has been obliged to
content himself with the first."

Now, I must premise that my worthy friend had a perfect horror of
literature, even in its simplest stages. He regarded the art of
printing as a Satanic invention, filling men's brains with idleness
and conceit; and as to writing--in his opinion a man was never
thoroughly committe