“Poor fellow!” said Rose, when Oliver had been one day feebly endeavouring to utter the words of thankfulness that rose to his pale lips; “you shall have many opportunities of serving us, if you will. We are going into the country, and my aunt intends that you shall accompany us. The quiet place, the pure air, and all the pleasure and beauties of spring, will restore you in a few days. We will employ you in a hundred ways, when you can bear the trouble.”

“The trouble!” cried Oliver. “Oh! dear lady, if I could but work for you; if I could only give you pleasure by watering your flowers, or watching your birds, or running up and down the whole day long, to make you happy; what would I give to do it!”

“You shall give nothing at all,” said Miss Maylie, smiling; “for, as I told you before, we shall employ you in a hundred ways; and if you only take half the trouble to please us, that you promise now, you will make me very happy indeed.”

“Happy, ma’am!” cried Oliver; “how kind of you to say so!”