"Father took it away from me,” whimpers the child.

The young man totters back again, with a burning mist in his eyes.

"It's awful-a-say it's awful!" continues Ginn, with a fierce energy of manner, but keeping his voice down to the horrified whisper. "Look at it. The last time a-looked at that poor, dead cuss, a-yanked him down, an' licked him for beatin' that woman on the bed; an' now we come in, twelve o'clock o-night, an' we find him stiff dead with pison. Damned if it don't make yer uncle's hard heart soft!" He stops a minute to wipe away something from his eyes, with a red handkerchief. Perhaps it was a tear, which the hard heart had overflowed them with in softening.

"Look a-here," he resumes; 66 a-am a regular, ugly devil, an a-know it. A-am a total cuss, an' keepin' a eatin' saloon don't improve no man's temper, but this does take the starch out o' me. A-am down on that man for committin' suicide, an' when he lammed that woman, a-was onto him; but you just put yerself in his boots, an' consider it. Look a-here-a-am posted up in the facts. Miss Gilhooley, there, she told me that he got seventy-five cents a day for totin' brick an' mortar up a ladder, from mornin' to night. That's four dollars an' a half a week, ye know, an' will ye have it now, or wait till ye get it, 's the principle, you understand, with the man that hires him. How'd you like to do that amount o' work, an' have a wife and three young uns to feed, for four dollar an' a half a week? Mind-he don't get his wages any way regular, but takes it out in store-pay-orders on a grocery, ye see, which takes off aprofit. A-say it's hard! A-say a-don't blame no man for gettin' desperate an' takin' to drink under them circumstances. An' when a man's in liquor, he does get ugly, an' don't care who he hits. Hadn't no education, ye see, an' don't know different. An' it does rather strike yer uncle that, if he was in that po-sition, and saw big-bugs wallowin' in cash, and not willin' to do anything for him, he'd feel uncommon savage-well, he would, now."

He stops again, and, with a strong contortion, chokes down a tremble in his voice.

"But," he continues, "here's the

worst look at the matter. That man aint had no work for a month. No, sir! Not for a month, an' he couldn't get it, an' he has a wife an' three chil'ren to feed. What's yer opinion of life now, under similar circumstances? Ye know ye were a-goin' to tell me, one of these days. Supposin' ye just let it out now!"

"My God! Ginn, how did they live?" exclaims the appalled listener.

"Well, a-guess some of 'em didn't live," answers the caterer, with something like a ghastly smile creeping out on his face.

"A-didn't want to let ye know," he resumed, fiercely; "a-didn't want to have ye up here to-night-though its well you've come-but ye'r in for it. That basket-ye needn't look in it It aint towels. Its bread an' its meat for that woman an' her little chil'ren. Don't you say a word. A-don't want to be buttered for nothin'. Yer uncle don't leave no money in his will to the charitable institu-tions, an' get his name put in the papers; nor he don't stick up big posters round the street when he gives a dollar. But he c-a-n't let a woman and chil'ren starve before his eyes, no how. A-'ve fed 'em, and that's the way they lived. A-'ve fed 'em for three weeks-cuss the expense, asay, but a-couldn't ha' done it for ever. That's the story."

There is a tear on his face, and this time he does not wipe it away. The Dark Student sees it roll slowly down, and drop from his check, to be lost in the air. Lost? No; not lost.

"An' now, look o'here," he bursts out, starting up; "there's something to be done. Hear that woman moaning! Somebody ought to be called in. A-can't bear the idea of gettin' a stupid watchman, who couldn't do nothin'! An' if a-wake up somebody in the house, we'll on'y have a lot of Irish women yellin' an' kickin' up the devil for nothin'! Say-you stay here, an' a-'ll drop over to Miss Miles-that's where my room is-an' she'll come. She's used to treatin' sick folks, and dead folks, an' a-'ll be back soon."

He goes off suddenly, on tip-toe, leavleaving the Dark Student alone. Alone in that fearful room-the dull gleam of the lamp showing the dead man staring at the smoky ceiling-the, low moans of the heart-broken woman, on the bed, in his ears he can yet only think of

the good things in the man he had so despised, and his heart does justice to Mr. Ginn. Not Sir Philip Sidney nor Roger L'Estrange, debonair and stately gentlemen of a poetic day; but a man who, if they were what the world believes them, would have shone in their honor and esteem. Not Fenelon or Channing, but a creature with a very human heart.

He comes back, at last, with Mrs. Miles. She is a little, middle-aged woman, with mild, bulging, blue eyes, and a yellow handkerchief tied round her head, under her chin. She is very much horrified just now, but not quite as agitated as might be expected. For Mr. Ginn has prepared her mind with the whole story outside, and she has got over the worst effects of it. While the two men lift up the body to a table, and close the staring eyes, and decently compose the limbs, she applies herself to the task of reviving the poor woman in the bed. This she succeeds in doing to some extent at last. Her efforts at consolation are, of course, fruitless. They serve little other purpose than to touch the heart of the Dark Student, and revive his fallen respect for human nature.

"Ginn," whispers the young man, "why didn't she-what's her name ?Mrs. Gilhooley-why didn't she apply for relief to somebody? Why didn't she go to the City, and represent that she was in want?"

Mr. Ginn looks at him steadily, and purses up his lip, as if he would whistle. Then he smiles faintly.

66

"Why didn't the City go to her?" he answers sententiously. 'Supposin' she didn't want to be bundled to the poor-house?-that's all the City'd do for her. Supposin' she had a streak of pride, and didn't want to be a pauper? Why didn't the City fix things so's her husband could get work, an' why didn't they shut up the rum shops, an' indict a man who lets such a house as this, which aint fit for no decent hog to live in, though poor folks have to? Say? Why didn't somebody come an' see to her, without waitin' to be asked? I did. Didn't send up no card, but walked straight in, you know, with her boy under my arm. Say-why didn't you come yourself? Saw you to-day, on the sidewalk, when you asked that small boy of hers why he didn't have no shoes. Aint got none,' says he.

Saw ye give him a half a dollar then, and walk off. Why didn't ye foller him up then, when ye'd a chance? Don't blame ye, ye understand, but you see ye're one of them kind that don't get up an interest in such things, because ye don't know what they are. Yer uncle does! Somebody aint got no time, nor no cash for everybody that wants it. Ye see?"

Yes. The Dark Student does see, not exactly through Mr. Ginn's unstatesmanlike, unphilosophic eyes, it is true; but then, he sees. He sees that individuals and institutions have each their own special fish to fry, and are pre-occupied, to the sore detriment of the Gilhooleys. He sees that the separation of Church and State has been accomplished a little too effectually -religion being one thing, and politics. another. He sees that there must be some victims to the spirit of societythe selfism which binds upon its forehead like a frontlet, and writes upon its broad phylacteries the words, Every Man for Himself, and God (why not the devil, too?) for us all,-until its tardy charity, scared into Christian remembrance by a thousand starving cries, denies its selfish philosophy, and starts up in make-shift plans for public soup and calico balls! When shall the beautiful and wise compassion that fed the Syrian multitudes, eighteen centuries ago, be poured into the heart of this world's life, and animate its hand to work a social miracle, and feed forever the multitudes to-day?

"Besides," resumes Mr. Ginn, sinking his voice to a lower whisper, and putting his hand over his mouth as if to keep the voice down, "Miss Gilhooley there aint no beggar. She's an uncommon fine Irishwoman, ye know; an' if she hadn't had him for a husband, or if it hadn't gone wrong with 'em both -he wan't in work half the time, ye see-an' he got down-hearted, an' took to drink, she told me-she'd have been somebody. She's got her own notions of pride, though she's come pretty low; an' she'd rather work, if she knew how, than beg a favor, ye see. what, my boy, there's a good many stripes and shades o' poor folks, an' you'll get your eyes peeled to that fact one of these days-well, ye will!"

Tell ye

"Well, Ginn, he's dead now, and what are they going to do?" asks the young man, sadly.

"Don't know," replies Mr. Ginn. "Something 'll turn up, I reckon. Something does, generally. He's dead, anyway, an' a-don't know as he'd have done any good by livin' longer. Fello de se, the coroner's jury 'll find him guilty of, to-morrow. Can't blame him, all things considered, for times was hard with him, an' that's a fact."

The Dark Student turns away for a minute. When he faces Mr. Ginn again, there is a strange trouble in his face.

"Ginn," he says, faintly, "I'm going home. I want you to give this to her when she recovers, and I'll see to it that she does not come to want."

It is a twenty-dollar note. Mr. Ginn looks at it with amazement, and then looks at the Dark Student.

"It's a saw-hoss," he murmurs, identifying the printed XX. on the bill. "Well, I swear!-If this ain't gener

ous-"

"No, Ginn, it is not," interrupts the young man. "It is you who are generous, and not me. You were a poor man, and out of your narrow means you sustained the poor. I am not poor, and-O I blame myself for not knowing more about the poverty-the want and misery, under my very windows. But I'll do better."

So be it. You were sick with self, young friend, and are now convalescent. This humble and thoughtful charity, this dawn of sympathy with your suffering kind, and this promise of a better future, are worth far more than all the careless silver you have ever given at a street-corner-far more than the murderous coin you blindly gave.

"Look a-here!" Mr. Ginn foams over with enthusiasm. 66 Well, I swear! I say ye'r a brick-with a gilt edge! Yer uncle's proud of ye!"

"Hush! Ginn," says the young man, with a motion towards the bed. Ginn understands it, and is mute.

"She'll get it," he whispers, subsiding. "It'll help the poor creatur'; and, maybe, when she gets up again, she'll find somethin' to do for her chil'ren."

"I'll see to that," replies the young man. "I've found the way here, and I'll come again. This is an awful -awful lesson. Oh, God forgive

me!"

The victualler is mute before this sudden burst of an emotion which his simple

heart cannot understand, and, without a word, suffers the young man to pass from the room, and leave him and his landlady there alone.

Alone, while the Dark Student blindly gropes his way down the stairs, his eyes blotted with repentant tears. The same low murmurs and whisperings he had heard, when he brought his hard and careless heart up to that fearful room, awake again behind the closed doors of the many families the wretched house contains, as he descends; and attend him going down-no longer with a hard and careless heart-until he passes out from the filthy portal into the pure air. The stars shine, with an ancient and an awful beauty, over wood and field, and sea and sleeping city, and on the darkened continent. Their signs and cyphers of holy fire burn solemnly above a world gone wrong. Yet trust that the world gone wrong, and still going wrong from year to year beneath their sacred. and passionless rebuke, shall yet go right! for they shine to-night above an altered heart; and wherever, on the wide globe, one such awakens from its baleful dream of self, and renews its early vows of service to humanity,there is born a beam of that struggling morning, destined to rise in human souls, and broaden grandly down blessed ages yet to be.

The Magian of the world's hope, pondering known laws of the contagion of example, will calculate what space of time must elapse before the process of the reduplication of the Dark Student's life is complete in fifty such as he, presaging the blissful era. Yet, now he waits, and must wait, for the man perfect in self-forgetfulness and heart, the genius of whose example shall work the beginning of the end. Ah! must he wait long? You, who read this page, perhaps it is you who were the Dark Student whose episode I have just told. If so-if so in any resemblance or experience-it is with you the question lies! Let him not, then, wait long. Let him, the Magian of the world's hope, at least, at some not too distant time, have it to answer-" The star of the Human Commonwealth is in the sky," when some sad questioner, pale with watching for the day, shall sigh to him the words whose legendary music floats from the grave of Roger Williams-"WHAT CHEER, BROTHER,WHAT CHEER?"

of thy hand; thou hast put all things under his feet." And truly, man is the master of the world.

There comes a joyous breeze in freedom through the air, and sings its merry songs in rush and reed, or plays sportively with branch and briar. But see, man stands upon the breezy hill, and catches the light-footed wanderer above; he stops him on his fruitless errand and makes him a servant, a slave. The wind can no longer roam at will over hill and dale; he must turn, in restless haste, the huge wings of a mill, or he is bound in towering sails, and has to drive mighty ships through the impeding waves.

There rushes a bright, cheerful spring from its cold mountain home down into the plain, and as it leaps over rock and root, it dashes its snow-white foam into the dazzling sunshine, and raises its little anthem of thanks and praise at every fall, in every valley. But here, also, the master stands in its way and compels it, a child yet, to turn the mill-wheel; or he loads the wellgrown river with heavily-laden barges, that it must carry from land to land to the mighty ocean.

The fish of the sea, the fowl of the air, and every living thing that moveth upon the earth, the trees and the herbs, the stones and the metals-they are all slaves and serfs of man. Even the lowest, made in the image of God, is still master of all the powers of Nature. The South Sea Islander makes plants support him, and beasts serve him; they build his hut on land, and carry him in boats over the seas. Savage and inhospitable winter fashions the water into clear blocks of ice to build the Esquimaux' house; the seal furnishes oil for his lamp, the whale gives him ribs for his boat, and heads for his arrows.

But it is not the strong arm and the skillful hand of man that make him thus master of Creation. His mind is the ruler of the world, the true Lord of Nature. It makes the sea and the mountain his slaves, so that the ice of the Pole, and the heat of the Tropics must serve him as he wills. And when he has mastered all that eye can see, and hand can grasp, when the present has nothing more to give him, and the future seems

to elude his grasp, he descends into the past, and raises even the spirits of the departed to serve him.

Man had exhausted the resources which the vegetable world of our day afforded him; every herb bearing seed, and every tree in which is the fruit of a tree had been to him for meat. But he desired more, and his restless, insatiable mind longed for new realms and new powers. So he went back into distant ages and exhumed the bodies of ancient generations. For animals and plants both, are made faithfully to return, to their common mother earth, whatever they have taken from her. The beast of the field, and even proud man die, and dust returns to dust. Plants, also, the firstborn children of the earth, must die, and return to the bosom of their great mother. But they sink only to rise again, or if buried beneath the ruins of ages, they preserve, even there, in eternal night, a breath of their former vitality, and centuries after, their dead bodies become, in the hands of man, once more a source of light and life.

From the western coast of France, vast desert plains stretch far east, through northern Germany and Russia, until they are lost in distant and unknown Siberia. The traveler shudders, he knows not why, as the boundless expanse first strikes his eye. There is no fresh waving tree to whisper words of good cheer and pleasant welcome; there is not a hill," which God delighted to dwell in." All is level, covered with brownish-red heather, with the golden blossom of the broom and thorny juniper-bushes. Only now and then a green marsh relieves the oppressive monotony, and grazing herds of cattle give life to the scene; but soon again the desolate moor spreads far beyond the horizon in dark, dreary dullness. The air hangs in gloom over the lifeless swamp; even the moor fowl cries as in agony, and the swift swallow, chasing light-winged dragon-flies over the rushes, twitters in an undertone, and utters mournful complaints. Poverty, alone dwells on the borders of these desolate plains; low huts scarcely venture to raise their turf-roofs a few feet above the ground, and the dwellers on marsh and moor show in their pale, downcast features, that the clear air of