out to assure himself that the sun did shine brighter than usual.

The gentlemen both cast a puzzled and rather unbelieving look over the boy's patched clothes, but his earnest manner had excited their curiosity.

"Suppose you tell us all about it," said Ned.

"Well, sir, you see, she is very old, eighty years old, mamma says, and we heard last week that she had only wood enough to last a few days and very little to eat. It made us all feel very bad, for you do n't know how good she always was to every body when she was strong. Mamma had sold eggs and done odd jobs at different houses till she had earned enough to buy a new cloak for herself, besides doing as much as ever for us all. It was ten dollars. Do you understand, sir?" asked Benny, who seemed to think his auditors were not so much impressed as they should be at the mention of such an

enormous sum.

"Yes, quite well. Go on."

"I saw it all with my own eyes," said Benny. "Ten silver dollars! Well, mamma thought about the old lady, and planned and contrived for her, but nothing came of it till a day or two ago, when she happened to think that she could make over her old cloak and buy wood for Madam Bretton with the money. And she did, sir, and it is a real beauty, and mamma looked prettier with it on this morning than "-the boy cast a shy, curious look at the ladies, who were listening with breathless interest-"than any lady I ever saw."

"What, Benny, prettier than Miss Alice here?" "O, yes, sir, a great deal." Benny's manner was quite decided. "But that is not all, Mr. Ned. My sister Nellie and I opened our savings bank this morning, and we have bought some tea, and sugar, and bread, and meat enough to last the old lady a week. O, is not New-Year's day a happy day?"

The boy's artless story had moistened every eye in the room with tears. Even Ned, funloving Ned, just returned to his native town after ten years' foreign travel, was obliged to turn to the window to conceal his emotions.

"So, you see," said Benny in conclusion, "that Madam Bretton won't go to the town." "That is evident. Well, you are a happy little fellow. Here is the pay for your mother's work and a dollar for yourself."

"That little lad and his parents shame us all," said Ned at last.

"Not if their example provokes us to love and good works," said one of the ladies. "Suppose we make up a sum sufficient to buy 'mamma' a cloak. What do you think of it, Henry?" "It would spoil all, in my opinion. They have made a sacrifice. Let them enjoy the luxury of doing good. But we can assist them in making the old lady comfortable. What are you thinking of, Ned?"

"Of a plan that just occurred to me like an inspiration. Hurrah! It's just the thing if, as I suspect, the lad's parents live in that brown hut up the lane where aunt and I stopped to leave that very bundle of work on Monday." "That is the place. one of the ladies.

What is the plan?" asked

"A secret, Alice. You know, coz, that such things are never intrusted to the care of women."

CHAPTER IV.

The clear, cold day passed on, and another sunset, as fair as the last was brightening the western sky. Benny had fed the chickens, as he persisted in calling the matronly hens; he had filled the wood-box by the stove, and brought in his basket of kindling-wood for morning; he had held the pincushion while Nellie undressed her big rag dolly, and was now whistling a low accompaniment to the lullaby that the little girl was singing as she rocked the said dolly to sleep.

His father had not yet come to tea, and his mother had not returned from Madam Bretton's, where she had been all the afternoon. Benny was used to staying with his sister, and never found it dull work to amuse her, but to-night he did wish that mamma would hurry home. He wanted to know what the old lady thought of her New-Year's gifts, especially the eatables bought with the money he and Nelly had saved.

"Tickled half to death, I'll bet," said he aloud; "and I do n't blame her. She don't get such a haul every day. But there comes papa, and I have n't made the tea. Well, here it goes. A good strong cup for New-Year's day."

"No, Benny, make it just as usual."

"You here, mamma? How did you come? I've watched an hour and did n't see you. Did the old lady like the tea, and the rolls, and the bacon, and the butter, and-"

แ

They all stood at the window to watch the boy as, with renewed antics and whistling, he retraced his path toward home.

"Mamma, what did she say to the wood? Did you tell her that Mason had offered to saw

it, and that I and Bob Peters are going to bring it up stairs and pile it up for her? Did n't she think that pat of butter looked nice, mamma? Do tell me every thing."

"How can I? You won't let me speak. Nellie, love, place papa's chair at the table, and when we are all seated I will answer Benny's questions. Papa would like to hear about it too."

"Yes, to be sure I should," answered a hearty voice from the little back room where John was washing his hands at the sink.

"Will you make haste, papa, please?" urged the impatient boy, who could hardly wait till the blessing of God was invoked upon their humble meal before he broke out afresh.

"Now, mamma, please tell us. What did the old lady say when-”

"Be quiet, Benny," said his father. "Now, Ellen, begin at the beginning and tell us the whole story. Perhaps you would like to rest first."

"I am not tired, thank you. When I went in I thought Madam had for her a rather anxious look. She did n't look exactly worried, only a little sad. So I asked what was the matter.

"Nothing very bad,' she replied, 'but I heard to-day that Edward Abbott has come home. He owns this house, you know, and he will be anxious to rent it. The lower rooms have been empty for a year now.'

"That is strange,' I answered, 'for they are such convenient, nice rooms. I never come in here without wishing we could afford to hire them.'

"I wish you could, my dear. Two of the chambers go with that tenement. I have only this room and that place under the eaves where I keep my wood. I have been thinking that Mr. Abbott will not like to have the rooms empty.'

"But if a family should move in you would be better off. It is n't safe for you to live here alone. I feel very anxious about you when we have such storms as this last. should be taken suddenly ill?'

What if you

A

"I was not thinking of that, Ellen. strange family might want the whole house, and I can no longer pay the rent even of this little room. Do n't look so troubled, my dear. It will all work together for my good; and surely I, who have so often proved the goodness of my Father in heaven, should not distrust him now. He will provide.'

"'That is true,' said I, suddenly recollecting my errand. 'Why, only think, I came over this afternoon to tell you that a person, who do n't wish to be known, is going to send you dry wood enough to last all winter. And Mason is to cut

it, he offered to do it, and the children will pack it under the eaves for you. It will be here directly. And here is a trifle from my little ones, just to show that we do n't forget your goodness to us. They saved their pennies instead of buying candy. John and I encouraged them to do so, for candy spoils the teeth, you know."

"The old lady gave one amazed look at the contents of the basket, and then turned directly round and kneeled down by her chair in the corner. I knew she was thanking God, and I hurried to put all the things in the cupboard out of sight, for I did n't want her to thank me." "Why not, mamma? She ought to, I am sure."

"Ah, Benny, her silent tears of gratitude said more than any words."

"But what did she say after all, mamma?"

"She had no time to say any thing, for directly a sled loaded with bags, and barrels, and boxes stopped at the door, and a clear, loud voice asked if Madam Bretton lived there. I ran down stairs to reply, and met a tall, smilinglooking gentleman in the entry.

"I want to speak to Madam Bretton.' "She lives up stairs, sir.'

"I have a load of groceries here. Where shall I put them?'

"A new tenant coming in, I suppose?' I said.

"Well, yes, I hope so. Are you Benny Strong's mother?'

"Yes, sir.'

"I thought so. The same eyes and smile. Here, Tom, put all those things into this room for the present. Now, ma'am, if you please, let us see the old lady.'

"He was up the stairs introducing himself before I had crossed the entry, for my heart failed me as I thought that his probable errand was to warn the old lady out. But I followed as soon as I could.

"My name is Edward Abbott,' I heard him say. 'Do you remember me? You used to call me Neddy when I was a boy and teased you. You have not forgotten me, I hope.'

"No, sir. Your features are too like your father's for me to forget them. He was my husband's chum in college, and afterward they were dear friends. It was a long time ago, sir, too long ago for you to remember, but you look now as he did then.'

"My father died just a month before I was born, which makes my recollections of him rather indistinct, you see.'

"I wish, John, that I could give you an idea of the fun that twinkled all over his face as he spoke."

her affairs. Do n't say no, Mrs. Strong. I know it is cold weather, but I could send persons to assist you about moving."

"Ellen is not thinking of the trouble of moving," replied John. "We have not so much to move as to make it a burden. Besides she has always desired to live in that house. But we have found it difficult to pay the rent of this, and I am afraid we should not be able to pay more. Your house rents for twice the sum we pay."

"What of that? I meant you to understand that Mrs. Strong would pay the rent by looking after the old lady. John Strong, you are not above giving or receiving a kindness. You will really oblige me by agreeing to my terms and moving into the house at once. When will you be ready to move, Mrs. Strong?" "To-morrow." "That is right. Shall I send some help?" "No, sir. But you must let us thank you, for indeed we appreciate-"

'Yes, yes, I know. Excuse me for hurrying away."

Indeed, sir," persisted Ellen, following him to the door, "I must say one word. We shall be quite rich and-"

"Good evening. A happy New-Year to you both. Come, little Benny. The moon is coming up clear and bright. Let us take your sled here, and coast a little on the hill-side yonder. See how it sparkles! It makes me a boy again. I would ask you all to join in our sport, but Benny and I don't want any old folks with us, do we, Benny?"

"He was not in a hurry after all," said Ellen as she stood at the window watching them. "Do come, John, and see them slide. The sled shoots down the hill like an arrow. Don't you hear them laugh and shout?"

"Yes."

"He is only two years younger than you are, John. I wonder how you would look in a frolic like that."

"I would soon show you, Ellen," he replied, his eyes lighting up as he watched the sport, "but if we are to move to-morrow, there are many things that I must arrange to-night."

"No, no, John. Sit down here and take Nellie on your knee and let us talk of God's goodness."

For a long hour they sat in the moonlight recalling with grateful hearts their past experiences of God's care and loving-kindness toward them. They made many resolutions for the future, humbly trusting in divine grace for strength to keep them. When all was at last till, and Benny and Nellie were snugly tucked

into the low trundle bed for the night, the little girl raised herself on her elbow and inquired,

"What will Madam Bretton say when she knows we are coming, Benny?"

"Say? I don't know. O, I guess," said the boy after a pause, "she 'll do as she did to-day— kneel down and thank God."

RUINS OF TIME.

BY MARY A. HARLOW.

trk of creation, and had called into existN the beginning, when God had finished his

ence the first families of men, there was already abundant material for that decay and death which has since been visited without interruption upon all things earthly. The seasons then wrought their annual changes, bringing forth the blossom and the green leaf, autumn's chill winds, and the snowy mantle of winter. Beauty, too, bloomed beneath that orient sky where God had placed the germ of life for countless millions; but the fairest in their turn yielded to the power of decay.

Thus through succeeding centuries has Time kept up his ceaseless march, leaving as trophies of his strength many a moldering pile, reared long ago by the pride and ambition of men.

The past imparts to us many sad and instructive lessons. From the first era in the history of earthly greatness through the long interval of ages we encounter only the graves of heroes and the ashes of thrones. Each succeeding ruin adds a fresh knell to the sad cadences of departed glory. We reach the present and stand upon the threshold of the future. Another solemn death-note! How eloquently it speaks of that day but little distant when we shall have glided into the past, our names forgotten, and, perchance, our happy country pointed out as an example of departed grandeur!

Ah, let it ring! It is meet that we should sometimes be aroused from life's absorbing pursuits, from its dreams of glory and renown, and led to consider the insecurity of our title either to personal or national greatness. The fate of generations long passed away may seem of little moment to us aside from the lessons they teach of our own mortality and weakness, yet as composed of fellow-beings, the workmanship of God, they merit our respect and pity. We symnothing wish

.1

genera are now known to be of a vegetable aracter; although previously Professor Ehreng had thought them worthy a place in the mal kingdom. Advancing one step further, we come to aner order of the algals known as confervæ.

ments she revealed the greatness of the Roman character. Her people, both the high born and the lowly, were affected by the very emotions which we experience. All had their joys, hopes, fears, and aspirations. There was the tie of blood and of friendship, plighted faith and heroic love. The marriage peal was welcomed with rejoicing, and the solemn death-knell echoed by the sighs and groans of broken hearts. There, too, was beauty and chivalry, coveting alike earth's fame and adulation; but those brave hearts that quailed not in the fiercest battle, those beautiful forms celebrated in the poet's song, for centuries have been ashes. It is difficult to grasp the truth that to generations long departed life was as real and earnest as to us, and more difficult even to sigh for them in anticipation of similar destiny.

Other races have left no historian but some solitary monument, or the ruins of deserted cities, to tell that they lived, flourished, and were forgotten. Travelers in eastern Asia inform us that they sometimes behold vast towers, bearing neither date nor inscription, yet evincing the skill and refinement of their designers. But to discover their names were as fruitless as to seek their footprints in the desert sands.

What emotions must fill the heart while standing before such an evidence both of the power and weakness of humanity! History is full of similar records, but the mind only faintly comprehends their truthfulness, so distant and unreal do they appear. But here stands unconcealed a living proof of human destiny. Here is the monument of art, beauty, and power. One spacious grave is sufficient to compass the pride and ambition of thousands of hearts.

Then is life, with its mixture of tears and sorrows, hopes and enjoyments-life so allied to death, vain and unsatisfactory? Ask of him who beholds every cloud spanned with the bow of promise. Ask of the devoted Christian, who, with the eye of faith, looks joyfully to the blessed resurrection. Ask of the book of God, whose golden pages declare that only through the trial of earthly life can the soul be purified for the unchanging joys of heaven. Ask of Nature, ever-varying Nature, who scatters her blossoms over the whole earth, then without pity blights her glorious work, and prepares for another revival over the decay of fragrance and beauty.

Benny ran to open the door before the genuieman had time to rap.

"Ah, it is little Ben-evolence, is it?" said Ned. "No, sir. It's Benny Strong."

"Well, how goes the New-Year? Are you tired of it yet?"

HALLOWED BE THY NAME.

BY ELLEN E. MACK.

THIS holy Sabbath morning,
Alone beside the wood,
Warmed in the soft spring sunlight,
In happy mood I stood:
The tender grasses springing
In verdure at my feet,
Deepening upon the hill-side,
Brightening the lone retreat:
A sweet and solemn anthem
Sweeping through the trees,
And sweet, wild, echoing bird-notes
Borne upon the breeze:

A sacred Sabbath spirit

Brooding in the air, And rest and holy quiet

Sleeping every-where.
Anon a sudden echo

Was wafted to my ear,
The sound of distant church bells
Chiming sweet and clear.
'T was like a holy fiat

Unto my spirit lone;

I kneeled in sudden impulse
Beside a cold, gray stone.
Tears pressing from their fountain
In dimming moisture came;
My spirit breathed, "O, Father,
Hallowed be thy name!"
"Amen!" the passing zephyr
Responded in my ear;

"O, praise the Lord with gladness!"
The wild bird warbled near.
Far up light's shining pathway
The heavenly host exclaim-
Bowing in adoration-
"Hallowed be thy name!"

THE BEAUTIFUL HAS VANISHED.

BY NELLIE L. BUTTERFIELD.

SLEEP, sleep, my darling, now;

The flowers strewn o'er thy breast,
Or twined around thy childish brow,
Are not more spotless, love, than thou-
In all thy beauty rest.
First blossom of my love,

And dear as life to me,

Yet in the land of rest above

Thy wings are folded now, sweet dove;
I can not weep for thee.
Thrice blessed, sinless one,
Thine is eternal life;

So early hath thy race been run,
So soon the victory been won,
Thou hast not felt the strife.
And thou art still my own,

And, hovering near me, oft
My spirit feels thee, gentle one;
I wait but till my work is done

To join thee up aloft.