ght, always pleasant and cheerful; and
his friends say, "Why should not he be so too? He is in exactly the same
circumstances." No, he is not. In one circumstance they differ. He has a
mind to feel and remember every thing that can pain; she can feel and
remember but little. If you blame him, he is exasperated, gloomy, and
cannot forget it. If you blame her, she can say she has done wrong in a
moment, and all is forgotten. Her mind can no more be wounded than the
little brook where she loves to play. The bright waters close again, and
smile and prattle as merry as before.

Which is the most desirable temperament? It would be hard to say. The
power of feeling is necessary for all that is noble in man, and yet it
involves the greatest risks. They who catch at happiness on the bright
surface of things, secure a portion, such as it is, with more certainty;
those who dive for it in the waters of deeper feeling, if they succeed,
will bring up pearls and diamonds, but if they sink they are lost
forever!

But now comes Saturday, and school is just out. Can any one of my
readers remember the rapturous prospect of a long, bright Saturday
afternoon? "Where are you going?" "Will you come and see me?" "We are
going a fishing!" "Let us go a strawberrying!" may be heard rising from
the happy group. But no one comes near the ill-humored James, and the
little party going to visit his sister "wish James was out of the way."
He sees every motion, hears every whisper, knows, suspects, feels it
all, and turns to go home more sullen and ill tempered than common. The
world looks dark--nobody loves him--and he is told that it is "all his
own fault," and that makes the matter still worse.

When the little party arrive, he is suspicious and irritable, and, of
course, soon excommunicated. Then, as he stands in disconsolate anger,
looking over the garden fence at the gay group making dandelion chains,
and playing baby house under the trees, he wonders why he is not like
other children. He wishes he were different, and yet he does not know
what to do. He looks around, and every thing is blooming and bright. His
little bed of flowers is even brighter and sweeter than ever before, and
a new rose is just opening on his rosebush.

There goes pussy, too, racing and scampering, with little Ellen after
her, in among the alleys and flowers; and the birds are singing in the
trees; and the soft winds brush the blossoms of the sweet pea against
his cheek;