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The figure lifted up his head and rose, and coming to the bedside, said :

“My own boy! Don't you know me ?”

Paul looked it in the face. Before he could reach out both hands to take it between them and draw it toward him, the figure turned quickly from the little bed and went out at the door.

The next time he observed the figure sitting at the bottom of the bed, he called to it.

“Don't be so sorry for me, dear papa. Indeed, I am quite happy!”

His father coming and bending down to him, he held him round the neck, and repeated those words to him several times, and very earnestly; and he never saw his father in the room again at any time, whether it were day or night, but he called out, “Don't be so sorry for me! Indeed, I am quite happy !” This was the beginning of his always saying in the morning, that he was a great deal better, and that they were to tell his father so.

How many times the golden water danced upon the wall, and how many nights the dark river rolled toward the sea in spite of him, Paul never sought to know. If their kindness, or his sense of it, could have increased, they were more kind, and he more grateful, every day; but whether they were many days or few, appeared of little moment now to the gentle boy.

One night he had been thinking of his mother, and her picture in the drawing-room downstairs. The train of thought suggested to him to inquire if he had ever seen his mother. For he could not remember whether they had told him yes or no; the river running very fast and confusing his mind.

“ Floy, did I ever see mamma ?” “No, darling; why ?”

“Did I never see any kind face, like mamma's, looking at me when I was a baby, Floy?”

“Oh, yes, dear!”
“ Whose, Floy?”
“ Your old nurse's. Often.”

“And where is my old nurse? Show me that old nurse, Floy, if you please!”

“She is not here, darling. She shall come tomorrow.”

“ Thank you, Floy!”

Little Dombey closed his eyes at these words, and fell asleep. When he awoke the sun was high, and the broad day was clear and warm. Then he awoke, — woke mind and body - and sat upright in his bed. He saw them now about him. There was no gray mist before them, as there had been sometimes in the night. He knew them every one, and called them by their names.

“ And who is this? Is this my old nurse ?” asked the child, regarding, with a radiant smile, a figure coming in.

Yes, yes. No other stranger would have shed

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those tears at sight of him, and called him her dear boy, her pretty boy, her own poor blighted child. No other woman would have stooped down by his bed, and taken up his wasted hand, and put it to her lips and breast, as one who had some right to fondle it. No other woman would have so forgotten everybody there but him and Floy, and been so full of tenderness and pity.

Floy! this is a kind, good face! I am glad to see it again. Don't go away, old nurse. Stay here ! Good-by!"

“Good-by, my child ?” cried Mrs. Pipchin, hurrying to his bed's head. “Not good-by?”

“Ah, yes! Good-by! - Where's my papa ?”

His father's breath was on his cheek before the words had parted from his lips. The feeble hand waved in the air, as if it cried “Good-by!” again.

“ Now lay me down; and, Floy, come close to me, and let me see you."

Sister and brother wound their arms around each other, and the golden light came streaming in and fell upon them, locked together.

“How fast the river runs, between its green banks and the rushes, Floy! But it's very near the sea

I hear the waves! They always said so!” Presently he told her that the motion of the stream was lulling him to rest. Now the boat was out at He put his hands together as he had been used to do at his prayers.

And now there was a shore before him. Who stood on the bank!

now.

sea.

He did not remove his arms to do it, but they saw him fold them so, behind his sister's neck.

“ Mamma is like you, Floy. I know her by the face! But tell them that the picture on the stairs is not divine enough. The light about the head is shining on me as I go!”

The golden ripple on the wall came back again, and nothing else stirred in the room. The old, old fashion! The fashion that came in with our first

garments, and will last unchanged until our race has run its course, and the wide firmament is rolled up like a scroll. The old, old fashion — Death!

Oh, thank GOD, all who see it, for that older fashion yet, of Immortality! And look upon us, Angels of young children, with regards not quite estranged, when the swift river bears us to the ocean!

CHARLES DICKENS.

ONE GOOD DEED.

If I might do one deed of good,

One little deed before I die,
Or think one noble thought, that should

Hereafter not forgotten lie,
I would not murmur, though I must
Be lost in death's unnumbered dust.

F. W. BOURDILLON.

THE INDIAN SINGER.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW was born in Portland, Maine, Feb. 27, 1807. His childhood was fortunate and happy. After his graduation at Bowdoin College he passed several studious years in Europe. On his return to America he became a professor at Bowdoin. In 1836 he became connected with Harvard University, and for many years was professor of modern languages at that institution. Between 1836 and 1880 he published numerous volumes of poems and three books of prose. The melody of his verse is unsurpassed by that of any American writer.

He died at his home in Cambridge, March 24, 1882.

[graphic]

Two good friends had Hiawatha,
Singled out from all the others,
Bound to him in closest union,
And to whom he gave the right hand
Of his heart, in joy and sorrow;
Chibiabos, the musician,
And the very strong man, Kwasind.

Straight between them ran the pathway,
Never grew the grass upon it;
Singing birds, that utter falsehoods,
Story-tellers, mischief-makers,
Found no eager ear to listen,
Could not breed ill-will between them,
For they kept each other's counsel,
Spake with naked hearts together,

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