"I'm sure I'm very sorry; what are you going to do with me, sir?" "Take you home with me, until I can get rid of you, and pay myself out of your trunks, unless they're filled with stones. It wouldn't be such a bad idea to lose you in the streets, accidentally; but no, on second thoughts, it's better not; there are always some troublesome philanthropists about." "Oh, sir, if you can't find my uncle, won't you send me on to Boston again? The Captain told my mother he'd find him for me—or that good gentleman would." "The Captain's a rogue, and so is your good gentleman. Are you such an eternal fool as to think I'll pay your passage again? you're mightily mistaken, I can tell you. I don't believe you ever had an uncle, you little cheat—and if you don't hush up about him, I'll find a way to make you."

Little Margaret was too much frightened to answer, and they kept on their way, through narrow muddy streets lined with lofty warehouses, and alleys filled with low German and Irish lodging-houses and beer-shops, until they came to a wider highway, at the corners of which Margaret read the name of Chatham street. On each side of the way were shops of the strangest appearance—furniture, old and new, was piled up together, coats and cloaks hung out at the doors, watches and jewelry of a tawdry description made a show in the windows, and men with keen black eyes and hooked noses, and stooping backs which looked as if they had never been erect in their lives, stood at the entrances, trying to attract the attention of the passer-by. As Margaret looked at them, she thought of the stories her mother had read to her of the ant-lion, stealthily watching at the bottom of its funnel-shaped den for its prey, which the deceitful sand brings within its reach, if once the victim comes to the edge of the pit; and of the spider, so politely inviting the fly within its parlor.

"Will you walk into my parlor?" said the Spider to the Fly, "'Tis the prettiest little parlor that ever you did spy; The way into my parlor is up a winding stair, And I've many curious things to show you when you're there." "Oh no, no," said the little Fly, "to ask me is in vain, For who goes up your winding stair can ne'er come down again."

At the door of some of the shops, she saw a man standing upon a box, with a hammer in his hand, and a crowd around him, eager, and bidding against one another. "Going, going, a splendid gold watch at five dollars—the greatest bargain in the world—tremendous sacrifice—going, going, gone!"

At last they came to his den; a shop like the rest, piled up with old brass andirons, sofas, bureaus, tables, lamps, coats and pants, ropes, feather-beds, and hideous daubs of pictures. Old-fashioned mantel-ornaments, looking-glasses, clocks pointing to all hours of the day, waiters with the paint rubbed off, old silver candlesticks, and a heap of other trash, completed the furniture of the room. Stumbling through this lumber, Smith led her up to a little garret, where the bare rafters were covered with dust, and one hole of a window let in some light, enough to reveal the nakedness of the place. In one corner, upon the dirty floor, was an old bed; a piece of a mirror was fastened against the wall, which looked quite innocent of the whitewash brush; and a stool, which had lost one of its legs, was lying in a very dejected attitude near the door. "Here you are to lodge," said Smith, with a sardonic grin, as he noticed the child's dismay at the announcement. "You can stay up here till I want you, and when you are hungry, you can go down stairs to the little back kitchen and get a slice of bread; but don't dare to show your face in the shop." "When will my trunks come?" said the little girl, whose wits were sharpened by the necessity of looking out for her own interests. "Never you mind about them trunks," replied Smith; "I advise you to keep quiet, and it will be the better for you." So saying, he descended into his shop, and left the poor child to her meditations, which were none of the pleasantest.

Two days passed without Smith making his appearance, and Margaret worked up her courage to the point of going into the shop, even if it did excite his anger, and insisting upon his taking her to her uncle, or sending her back to the ship. She walked in, unnoticed, and the first object that met her sight was one of her mother's large trunks, open and empty, with the price marked upon the top. Around the room she saw the others, and the contents, so precious to her from association with her deceased parent, were hanging about upon pegs, looking ashamed of their positions. Horrified, the little girl ran up to Smith: "these are my things," she said; "how dare you put them into the shop?" "You had better hush up, little vixen," replied the man, "or I'll take the very clothes from off your back. You don't think I am going to keep you without receiving board, do you?" "But I'm not going to stay here. I'll go back to the ship—the Captain will make you give me my things," cried the child, bursting into passionate tears. "Go—I'd like nothing better; go back to Boston as fast as you can, cry-baby, and give my compliments to the gentleman who cheated me into taking you," replied Smith, with his odious smile. "Then why will you not take me to my uncle? I don't want to stay in this horrid place." "Take care, or you'll get into a worse—as for your uncle, I saw in the paper yesterday an account of his death, so you need have no hopes from him." "Dead! all dead!" said Margaret, sinking down into the nearest seat, for her head swam, and her knees trembled so that she could not stand. "Yes, he's dead as a door nail—no mistake about that. So you had better not be troublesome, or you won't fare as well as you do. Here, Jackson," he said to a rough, bloated-looking, elderly countryman, who had been purchasing some old furniture, and had now re-entered the shop, "didn't you say that you wanted a little girl to do your work?" "Yes, I did," replied the man, "my old woman is not worth any thing any more. But I must have some one that will not be interfered with: I intend to get an orphan from the alms-house, that will suit me best." "Here is an orphan, who is the very thing: she has no relations or friends in the world, and I'm rather tired of keeping her—I'll give her to you for nothing." "That would do, but she does not look like a poor child: she is dressed like a little lady, and her hands are small and white, as if she wasn't used to rough work." "She is dressed up more than she should be, but you can soon mend that; and I'll answer for it, she'll learn to do the rough work soon enough." "Well, I'll take her: have her bundle ready by the afternoon, and I'll call for her in the wagon, and take the girl and the other baggage at the same time." "Agreed—she shall be ready."

It would be hard to describe little Margaret's feelings during the preceding dialogue: she plainly saw that there was no escape for her, unless she rushed into the street, and claimed the protection of any chance passer-by, and that honest Smith took pains to prevent, by locking her up in her room. When there alone, she threw herself down upon the bed, and sobbed as if her heart would break: "If my mother, my dear, dear mother, was living, she would take care of me. She would not let me stay in this filthy place—she would not let me eat dry bread and water—she would not let that ugly old man take me away, to do servants' work. Oh mother! mother! I wish I were dead too!" When her passion of grief was exhausted, comfort and hope began to dawn upon her, and she thought, "It cannot certainly be as bad in the country, where the old man lives, as here, in this vile hole, with all these disgusting smells and sights. And my mother said, that God is a friend who can never die or change, who will never leave or forsake the poor orphan. I will try to be a better child, and then God will love me: perhaps I deserve this, for being naughty. I certainly will try to be good."

In the afternoon, Jackson came for his baggage, as he called it, and after the furniture was stowed away, Smith brought down the little girl, and gave into her hand a very small bundle of clothes, bidding her tell no tales, or she should find she was in his power yet. She was put into the wagon, on top of the furniture, and the old man, whose face was red, and whose breath smelt of liquor, set off at a smart pace. It was late in the evening before they reached the solitary and desolate farm-house, which Jackson called his home: Margaret scrambled out as best she could, and entered the dwelling. Although it was now late in the autumn, there was no fire upon the hearth, and the room looked to the last degree dismal. It had something more of a habitable aspect when the furniture was brought in, but it was evident that no "neat-handed Phillis" had been accustomed to range through the house; and the spiders had provided the only ornaments to be found anywhere about, by hanging the walls with tapestry, which certainly could not be produced in the looms of France. Margaret found that there were two other inhabitants of this neglected house—Jackson's wife, a sad, heart-broken woman, only too evidently in a dying condition, and a son of about fifteen, rude, stubborn, and rebellious, whose only good-feeling seemed to be love to his poor mother. Jackson brought out some food, of which Margaret stood greatly in need, and she was then happy to be allowed to retire to the loft allotted to her, as she was exhausted by the ride and the agitation of mind she had gone through during the past week. Miserable as was her attic, she slept soundly until waked by the sun shining into her eyes: she quickly dressed, but did not escape a scolding from her sullen master, who commanded her to make a fire, and get his breakfast for him. Margaret was remarkably quick and handy for a child of her age, as her affection to her mother and grandfather had prompted her to do many little things for them which so young a girl seldom thinks of; but her delicate white fingers were unused to menial tasks, and to make a fire was quite beyond the circle of her accomplishments. Jackson then called upon his son to do it, but told her that he should not make it a second time, and grumbled and swore at her while he remained in the house.

It is astonishing how human nature can adapt itself to circumstances, so that the thing which we must do we can do: little Margaret, who had ever been so tenderly nurtured, soon learned to make the fire, to sweep the rooms, and cook the meals. Not in the most scientific manner, truly; her cookery would scarcely have been approved by Kitchener, Glass, or Soyer, but it was done to the best of her slender ability. While poor Mrs. Jackson lived, Maggie had at least the satisfaction of feeling that her efforts to please her were understood: the grateful look, the languid smile, and the half-expressed pity for the little slave, who was now to fill her place, reminded the child of her mother, and made her more contented with her situation. But when, exhausted by the life of hardship and cruelty which the drunkard's wife must ever experience, Mrs. Jackson slept her last sleep, and went to the home appointed for all the living, "where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest," then the little girl had none to feel for her. In a few days, the boy, Bill Jackson, told her that now his mother was dead, he wasn't such a fool as to stay there to be kicked and starved by his father; he intended to run off and go to sea, and he advised her too "to make herself scarce" as soon as she could. When he had gone, all the brutality which had been divided between the mother and son, was now visited on the innocent head of little Maggie; and unassisted even by counsel, she had to perform all the household tasks. If she had received kind words in payment, she could have overlooked many of the hardships of her condition; but these she never got. Let her be as diligent and pains taking as she would, severity and reproaches were all she met: Jackson was always sullen and morose in the morning, and at night, frequent potations from a large stone jug worked him up to a passion. Then he would knock the furniture about, throw chairs at Margaret's head if she came in his way, and swear in such a dreadful manner that the little girl was glad to seek shelter in her cold and cheerless loft, where at least she could be alone, and could pray to the One Friend she had left.

As the winter advanced, the child's sufferings greatly increased. The cold was intense, the situation a bleak one, and the old farm-house full of cracks and crannies which admitted the winter winds. Her clothing was of a thin description, and nearly worn out by hard usage: at night also, in her airy loft, she was often kept awake by the cold, or cried herself to sleep. But the more severe the weather was, the more did Jackson think it needful to take something a little warming, and the stone jug was frequently replenished: of course his temper became more violent, and Margaret was the sufferer. She kept out of the way as much as possible, but had no place to which she could retreat, except her loft. Here she would frequently solace herself by bringing out her medallion, which, according to her mother's directions, she wore next her heart, and gazing upon the beloved countenances of her parents—this dying gift was the only relic she had left of former times. One day a snow-storm set in, which reminded her of those she had seen among her own Scottish hills, where the drifts are so great that the shepherd frequently loses his life in returning to his distant home. The wind was piercing, and the snow was so driven about that you could scarcely see a few feet before you; and by evening it lay in deep piles against the door, and around the house. Jackson had of course resorted to the whiskey jug very frequently during the day, for consolation; and little Margaret, seeing him more than usually excited, had sought refuge in the cold and dismal loft, wrapping herself up as well as she could. As she sat there, shivering, and thinking how differently she was situated on the last snow-storm she remembered, when she was seated on a little stool, between her mother and grandfather, holding a hand of each, before a large blazing fire, and listening to beautiful tales—she heard Jackson call her name in savage tones. She hastened, but before she could get down the ladder which led to the room below, he called her again and again, each time more fiercely so that her heart trembled like a leaf upon a tree, dreading to meet his rage. He received her with oaths and abuse; called her a lazy little wretch, who did not earn the bread she eat, and commanded her to bring in an armful of wood from the pile, as the fire was going out. She ventured to tell him that she had already tried to find some, but ineffectually; in some places the snow was above her head, and the air was so thick with it, now that night had come on, that she could not see before her. But the violent man would take no excuse: he drove her out with threats, and long she groped about, vainly trying to discover the wood, which was completely hidden by the snow. Her hands and feet became numb, and she felt that she must return to the house, if he killed her—she would otherwise die of the cold. She came, timidly crawling into the room—the moment her master saw her, he started up; fury made him look like a demon. Seizing a stick of wood which still remained, he assailed her violently: the child, so tender hearted, and so delicately reared, who could be recalled to duty by one glance of the eye, was now subjected to the chastisement of a brutal, insensate drunkard! At last he stopped, but his rage was not exhausted. Opening the door, he told her never to darken it again—never more should she dare to show herself within his house. Falling upon her knees, the little girl besought him with tears not to expel her—she had no one to go to, no father, no mother to take care of her. If she was driven out into the snow, she should die with cold—if he would only allow her to stay that night, she would leave on the morrow, if he wished it! But tears and prayers were unavailing; all of man he had ever had in his nature was now brutified by strong drink; as well might she have knelt to the tiger thirsting for blood, as to him. Driving her out with a curse, he shut and bolted the door.

The depths of distress call up energies, even in the childish heart which have never been felt before. What was there upon earth to revive the spirit of the little orphan, so utterly deserted, so ready to perish? Nothing. But there was something in heaven—and within that girlish bosom there lived a faith in the unseen realities, which might well have shamed many an older person. With her uncovered head exposed to the falling snow, she knelt down, and this time she bent the knee to no hard, cruel master; but with the confidence of filial love, she uttered her fervent prayer to Him who is a very present help in time of trouble. She called upon her Father to save a little helpless orphan; or, if it were His will, to take her up to heaven—"Thy will be done." And she rose with a tranquillity and calm determination which many would have deemed impossible in one so young; but there is a promise, and many weak ones can testify to its fulfilment, "As thy day, so shall thy strength be."

Margaret went onward towards the public road: there was no farm-house nearer than about a mile, and the child greatly doubted her ability to reach it; but she had resolved to persevere in her efforts, while any power remained in her muscles, any vital warmth in her heart. Onward went that little child, painfully, but still steadily onward; she struggled against the drowsiness that attacked her, but at last she began to feel that she could do no more. But yield not yet to despair, thou gentle and brave orphan! One stronger than thou has come to thy assistance. For hearest thou not the subdued sound of horses' hoofs scattering the snow? thou art saved!

A traveller approaches, made of other stuff than the crafty Smiths and the brutal Jacksons of the earth,—he sees that slight childish figure, that bare head, those failing steps,—he thinks of his own little ones at home, seated by the sparkling fire, and awaiting his return. He is not one of those who hold the creed of impious Cain, "Am I my brother's keeper?" But, instead, he is a follower of the Good Samaritan, or rather, I should say, of Him who taught that lesson and practised it, seeking and saving those who were lost. He stopped his horse. "My little girl, what are you doing out of doors on a night like this? you will be frozen to death. Why are you not at home with your father and mother?" "I wish I were!" she said. "They are both dead—I wish I were with them!" "But, my child, you must have a home; why are you out on such a stormy night?" "I have no home, sir," replied poor Margaret. "I lived at the nearest farm-house, but my master was angry with me for not bringing in the wood, and beat me, and turned me out of doors; and I shall die of cold very soon, unless you take care of me, sir." "Poor little deserted one!" said the gentleman, jumping off from his horse. "Such a tiny thing as she, cannot have done any thing very bad—and to send her out to die! poor child! God sent me to you, and I will surely take care of you." So saying, he took off his cloak, lined with warm fur, and shaking the snow from her hair and clothes, carefully wrapped it around her, and placed her in front of him upon his horse. "My good, thoughtful wife!" said he; "when I laughed at you this morning for insisting upon my wearing this cloak outside my great-coat, little did I think it would save a precious life—I always do find it to my advantage to mind your womanly, wifely instincts. And now, little girl, we will go home as fast as we can—I will try to keep Jack Frost away from you with this cloak." Urging his horse onward, Mr. Norton, for that was the good man's name, every now and then spoke cheerily to the child whom he sustained with one arm, striving to keep her awake, and telling her of the bright warm fire she should see when they got home. At last they arrived there: when Mr. Norton jumped off his horse, Margaret saw that they had come to a small town, which looked very pretty as the snow lay upon the roofs and fences. Before he could ring, the door flew open, and the warm light, which looked like an embodiment of the love and happiness of home and fireside pleasures, streamed out upon the pure, cold snow, revealing, to the group within doors, the father carefully holding his burden. "Dear father! are you not almost perished?" cried his oldest son, Frederic, a manly little fellow, muffled up in cap, and coat, and worsted scarf. "You must let me take old Charlie to the stable, and come in yourself and thaw—you see I am all ready." "Well, my son, I believe I will; particularly as I have a bundle here that I must take care of." "What has father got?" said the younger children, wonderingly. "Why, it as large as a bag of potatoes!" "I have brought you home a little sister, children," Mr. Norton replied, entering the sitting-room and unwrapping poor Margaret. "My dear wife, I found this child upon the road, almost perished with cold: she is an orphan, and was cruelly treated by the wretch of a master who turned her out of doors to-night. Only look at her thin, worn-out gingham dress—and at the holes in her shoes!" "Poor little lamb!" said Mrs. Norton, gazing on her with a mother's pity—blessed effect of paternal and maternal love, that it opens the heart to all helpless little ones! "Don't cry, my dear, you will not be turned out of this house!" "Indeed, I cannot help it, ma'am; you are so very kind—like my mother." "But, wife and children, we must not stand here talking; we must get a tub of cold water, and keep her hands and feet in it for some time, or she will be all frost-bitten. Sally, my child, you need not place that chair for her so near the fire, for she cannot sit there: help your mother to bring the water." Sally, although rather younger than little Margaret, was a large child for her age, and while the latter was getting thawed, and the good mother was making a warming drink, she hunted up her thickest clothes, and begged that the poor stranger might wear them. "And may she not sleep with me to-night, mother?" "Oh no, mother, let her sleep with us," said Kate and Lucy, the two younger children. "I am glad to see you want to have her with you," replied their mother, "but as Sally is the nearest her age, and spoke the first, I think I must gratify her. But if Kate and Lucy wish it, she may sit between them at table." "Thank you, thank you, dear mother, that will be pleasant. Oh how glad we are we have a new sister!"

Soon was the story of the orphan's trials confided to the sympathizing ears of those who had now adopted her as one of themselves, and soon did the little girl feel at home in that household of love. Every day, as it developed her warm feelings, her lively gratitude, and the intrinsic worth of a character which seemed to inherit the virtues of her pious ancestors, attached her new friends to her more closely. Mrs. Norton declared that Margaret was the best child she had ever seen, and perfectly invaluable to her: if she did not keep her because it was her duty, and because she loved her, she certainly would as a daily pattern to her own children. And besides, she had such pretty manners, and knew so much, that it was better than sending the children to school, to have them with her.

If I were making up a story for your entertainment, my dear nieces and nephews, I should tell you that Margaret always lived with this admirable family, in perfect happiness, and that when she became a woman she married Frederic, the oldest son, thus keeping the place of a daughter in the house. But I am telling you the truth, which, you know, is often stranger than fiction, and often sadder also. In stories, good people are generally rewarded with uninterrupted prosperity, just as some very judicious parents give their children plum-cake and sweetmeats when they say their lessons well and do not scratch each others' eyes out. But it is not so in the real world: the all-wise Father above, acts on other principles. He knows that his children require evil, as well as good, and that the best soil will become dry, hard, and sterile, if the sun always shines upon it;—therefore it is that He sends dark, heavy clouds and gloomy days. Unwise and unthankful as we are, we grievously complain; but the showers still descend, and when we least expect it, behold the beautiful sun! All nature is again gay and joyous: the birds sing cheerily, the flowers raise up their dripping heads, new blossoms are put forth, and, to use the language of Scripture, the little hills skip like rams, the valleys shout, they also sing, and all the trees of the field do clap their hands. My heroine is still under the cloud of adversity, sharing in the fate of her protectors, and lightening their trials by her ready hand and most affectionate heart. Two years after she entered Mr. Norton's home, her benefactor was taken ill, and lingered for some months before he was transferred to that better mansion which is provided for each one of the faithful. Sad was the desolation caused by his death. I will not speak of the sorrow of the widow and of the orphans—you can all imagine that—but, in addition, they were deprived of their home, and cast out upon the world. After the bills were paid—the physician's, the apothecary's, and the undertaker's, in addition to those necessarily contracted for the household while the father was earning nothing, Mrs. Norton found that not a penny was left her. Selling what she could, she removed to Philadelphia, where she had resided in her youth, thinking that she could easily obtain employment for her needle, and so support her young family, while they shared the advantages of our excellent system of public schools. But she found herself friendless and unknown in the great city, with many competitors for a very little sewing; and she came to the conclusion that it is the very poorest way by which a woman can support herself. She obtained a situation for Frederic in a store, where he receives rather more than is necessary for his own wants; and, removing to the country, she took a little cottage for the sum which one room would have cost her in town. Frederic is able to pay her rent: and when she is well, with the aid of our little Margaret, she can maintain herself and her helpless children in tolerable comfort. Thus the orphan has it in her power to repay the kindness shown to her, and by exercising the noble virtue of gratitude, to rise daily higher in the scale of being."

"Dear Aunty!" cried Amy, with all eagerness, "have you not been telling us the story of our Mrs. Norton, and that pretty little adopted daughter of hers, with the large, deep blue eyes?"

"You have guessed my riddle, Amy," replied her aunt, smiling. "I called there this morning while you were all out—while George was amusing himself by falling into the pond—and heard the whole history from the sick woman's lips. I felt so deeply interested in it, that I thought you could spend an hour worse than in listening to the simple tale."

"Are you sure that you have not embellished it?" asked Mr. Wyndham, with a smile.

"Quite sure: for, although I filled up a few gaps in the narrative by using my very common-place imagination, I assure you that all the facts are substantially the same. And I don't doubt that if I had witnessed the scenes described, I should have been able to make my story far more pathetic, and far more romantic, because it would then have been a daguerreotype of the truth. I have talked with little Margaret herself, and certainly I have never seen a more engaging and lovely child. At my urgent request, she consented to lend me her precious medallion for a few days—and here it is."

"What a spiritual, poetical face!" exclaimed Mr. Wyndham. "I declare it reminds me of a portrait of Schiller which I once saw."

"And the mother, too—there is no doubt of that woman being a real lady," said Ellen. "Did you ever see a sweeter, gentler countenance?"

"Never," replied Alice. "But, uncle, do you not know that I have an idea? I guessed all along that Margaret Roscoe was our little friend—but I feel sure that rascal of a Smith was lying, when he said he had seen her uncle's death in the paper. It's not very likely such a fellow as he was, would object to telling an untruth! He only wanted to get her trunks, and to quiet her, you may be sure. And I believe that Mr. Alan Roscoe is now living in Philadelphia—and I believe that I know him, uncle!"

Her uncle started, and exclamations of surprise and delight burst from all the circle. "It might very well be," Mr. Wyndham said; "I remember thinking our amiable friend Smith was speaking an untruth, at the time, although I did not carry out the idea. But do you know any one of that name, Alice? Surely, it cannot be Mr. Roscoe, the retired merchant, who is so prominent for his benevolence and liberality?"

"Yes, sir, it is—I am intimate with his oldest child, Carrie. And I know that he is a Scotchman, and they used to live in Charleston, and his name is Alan, and his little boy is called Malcom! that's after Margaret's father, I am sure. Carrie told me he had been named after an uncle in Scotland who was dead!"

"Is it possible?" replied Mr. Wyndham. "It really does look like it—if it be actually so, my dear wife, here is another reverse of fortune for your heroine, which you did not expect. The contrast would be great indeed, between the little whitewashed cottage, and the magnificent mansion on Walnut-street!"

"I hope it will not turn her head!" said Charlie Bolton.

"There is little fear of that, I think," rejoined Mrs. Wyndham. "Margaret has early been tried in the furnace of affliction, and she has come out gold: I believe she really possesses that gospel charity, one of the marks of which is, that it is not, and cannot be, puffed up. But what shall we do? shall we tell her of our hopes?"

"By no means," replied her husband. "It would only excite expectations which, after all, may be disappointed—although I am strongly convinced that our suppositions are correct. For the first time in my life, I regret that to-morrow will be Sunday; but early on Monday morning I shall set out for the city, and for Mr. Roscoe's house or counting-room. With my good wife's permission, I will take this medallion with me, and show it to Mr. Roscoe—then I shall know in a moment if he is really Margaret's uncle."

"Will you be so kind as to take me with you?" asked a dozen voices at once.

"No, I will not," replied Mr. Wyndham, laughing. "The carriage cannot possibly hold you all. If Alice wishes it, I will take her, both as a reward for her quickness in making this discovery, and as a means of introduction to Mr. Roscoe, with whom I am not acquainted. And if our surmises prove correct, I expect to bring Mr. Roscoe back with me, which is another reason for not riding twenty or thirty in a carriage."

"Oh, uncle! uncle! twenty or thirty!"

"Well, you are a baker's dozen, at least, that you cannot deny. I quite long to get to town! I believe I am as much of a boy as Harry, there, or Lewis—I really wish I could put off Sunday just for one day, I am so impatient!"

"It will be an admirable exercise of your noblest faculties, uncle," said Cornelia, slyly. "I am rather impatient myself, even at my mature age. But the moral discipline, uncle, that is so invaluable that we ought not to wish it to be otherwise."

"Ah, you witch! I believe in my heart this is your revenge for my refusing to take you to town with me," rejoined her uncle.

"Not a bit of it—I bear no malice—it is only my native and unconquerable pertness, which I sometimes fear may get me into a difficulty with some one yet. But I am not at all afraid of you, dear uncle; I know you understand that it's only my way."

"Certainly, certainly; I should be a cross old fellow if I wished to repress your youthful spirits."

"But, uncle," said Charlie Bolton, "couldn't you put off Sunday as Dean Swift, or somebody or other, put off the eclipse? That would obviate all the difficulty."

"I never heard that story," cried George Wyndham, "But every one knows about 'Hail Columbia' putting on an eclipse."

"I don't, I must own," replied Cornelia, laughing. "Do tell it straight, if you can, you monkey."

"I'll try, my own true sister. If it wasn't Hail Columbia, it was Columbus, and that's all one, the whole world knows. When the Indians began to discover that the Spaniards were not gods, as they at first thought, they became a little obstreperous, and wanted to starve them out—quite natural, under the circumstances. But Columbus, from his knowledge of astronomy, was aware that a total eclipse of the moon would take place the next night. So he called a meeting of the natives, and informed them that they had brought upon themselves the vengeance of the Great Spirit by their conduct—that at a certain hour, the light of the moon would be nearly put out, and its orb would look like blood, as a sign to them of the displeasure of Heaven. And when the poor creatures really saw it happen as he had said, they were nearly frightened to death, and came to him, laden with provisions, and begging him to pray to the Great Spirit, that he might remove his wrath from them. Now I call that putting on an eclipse."

"The funniest circumstance in relation to an eclipse, happened to me," said Mrs. Wyndham. "When I was a very small child, I thought that quite as great a miracle was about to happen, as the Indians did. You must know that there came to Philadelphia a certain famous race-horse named Eclipse, of whose speed great marvels were told. Handbills about him were thrown into the house, and I thought he must really be a wonderful animal. Just at that epoch, I heard my father say something about an eclipse that night, and the moon in connection with it. My imagination was instantly fired. "Did you say, father, that Eclipse would go over the moon? why, can that be true?" "Oh yes, my dear, the eclipse is really going over the moon: if you wish it, you can stay up till nine o'clock, to see it." "Thank you, thank you, I should like to very much. But I don't see how it can be!" "More wonderful things than that happen, my child: you'll understand it better when you are older; but you shall see it to-night, if you are not too sleepy." "No danger of that—I wouldn't miss it for the world!" "How much interest little Lucy seems to feel in the eclipse, mother!" said my father. "We must certainly let her stay up."

Night came on, and the show began. The best seat at an upper window was reserved for me, and I looked at the moon constantly, afraid that if I turned away my eyes for one moment the wonderful event might take place without my observing it. All were interested in my seeing it. "Lucy, do you see it, dear I do you see the moon getting dark?" "Oh yes, I see that, but I don't see Eclipse." "Why, that's the eclipse—when the dark shadow goes over the moon, that is an eclipse of the moon." "But I don't see the horse jumping over the moon, at all." "The horse? what do you mean, child?" "You said that Eclipse was to go over the moon, but I can't see him in the least!"

"Oh, Auntie! were you, really, such a green child as that?"

"Yes, it is a literal fact. I thought it a most astonishing thing that it could happen; but since my father so gravely said it would, my faith was equal to the demand made upon it. When I found it was only something about the shadow of the earth falling on the moon, I went to bed, grievously disappointed and quite disgusted: I felt somewhat as the amiable Smith did, that I had been sold."

"Ah, Auntie, we children could not be taken in so now, I can tell you!" said Lewis.

"I know it," replied his aunt, smiling. "I am quite aware that the age of faith has passed away, and that republican institutions have made the young ones as wise and incredulous as their elders. I don't half like it myself!"



CHAPTER VI.

SUNDAY.—BIBLE STORIES.—CAPPING BIBLE VERSES.—BIBLE CLASS.

Sunday morning arose upon the earth, so clear, and calm, and beautiful, that it almost seemed as if it were conscious of the blessings bestowed by it upon millions of the human family. Happy day! when the man bent under the heavy load of oppressive labor and corroding care, may take the rest which the Maker of his frame intended for him, from the very beginning. Now, throwing off the weight, he can realize that he is a man—made in the image of his Creator, and made for happiness and immortality. Now, he can afford to think: he is no longer the mechanical drudge; he is no longer one little wheel in the great social machine; he is to-day a reflecting being, and the desire for mental and spiritual elevation throbs strongly within his heart. He sits at his hearth, whether in the proud palace or in the humble cottage, for the working-man is equally to be found in both, and feels himself to be the centre of the home. He enjoys sweet converse with the wife of his youth, and his children cluster round him, delighted to have his society. He walks to the House of Prayer, surrounded by those he loves, and joins with his fellow-men in adoration of the Great Supreme. He is happy, and is prepared by the sweet Sabbaths below for the bliss above.

Nor should we forget, on this day, the numerous attractive circles to be found throughout our highly-favored land, gathered together for Sunday-School instruction. Here, the voluntary system works to a charm: both teachers and scholars, drawn together by love, assemble, with sparkling eyes and kindly words, in their respective classes. Here, all ages can find something to interest them: the rosy-cheeked, chubby child runs along to its Infant School, fearing to be one moment behind the time, and singing,

"Oh, let us be joyful, joyful, joyful,"

with a full understanding of at least that part of the duty to be performed. And the adult walks quietly to the Bible Class, where mutual study and conversation about some passages of the Sacred Word elicit its meaning, and throw new light upon the holy page. And, in the ages intermediate between these two extremes, how bright and joyous are the groups clustered around each loving teacher! If the toil be great, how much greater the reward! how delightful is it to see the young mind expand, and the warm affections glow, beneath the hallowing influence of religion! And how pleasant and how good is it to find the hearts of adults and of children, of rich and poor, knit together by a common feeling of interest in the common cause!

Some such thoughts arose in the minds of our party at The Grange, and were fostered by the lovely calm of nature, which is so observable on Sunday in the country, where the very animals seem to know that they are included within the merciful commandment of rest. Mr. Wyndham was religiously observant of the day, but exceedingly disliked the gloom by which many worthy people think it a duty to lessen their own happiness, and to throw a chill and constraint upon that of others on this joyful festival. He thought that the weekly commemoration of the Saviour's resurrection should fill us with bright hopes and an enlivening piety; and that an air of cheerfulness should be thrown around it, which might say to all who had not yet entered within the gates of Zion, "Come ye, and taste that the Lord is gracious." People are doubtless much affected, in these minor shades of difference, by their natural temperaments. Mr. Wyndham's frame of mind was so kindly and hopeful, and so open to all that is pleasant and animating, that his religion partook of the genial influence. On Sunday, his face beamed with a more radiant smile than on other days, and he appeared to realize that it was indeed the foretaste of eternal joy.

In the morning, both old and young repaired with one consent to the little country church, in which they filled up quite a number of pews. Being the last Sunday in the year, the venerable clergyman, whose earnest manner and silver hairs made his message doubly impressive to the hearts of his hearers, exhorted all, of every age, to bring back to their minds the fleeting days of that division of time which was so soon to pass away, and to be numbered with those laid up against the Judgment. When that year had begun, what resolutions of improvement had been formed, what vows of greater fidelity had been made? And how had they been kept? All had, during the seasons past, received new proofs of the kindness and long-suffering of the Father above; but had the goodness of the Lord led them to repentance? or had it fallen upon hard, unfeeling hearts, which it could not penetrate? How stood they in their accounts? Not their ledgers, not their cash-books did he now call upon them to examine; but records of a far higher character, which affected their heavenly interests, as well as their temporal prosperity—the deeds, the words, the cherished feelings of that year, which had left an impress upon their souls forever, and made them richer or poorer for eternity. They owed debts to their Maker and Redeemer, and to their fellow-men: how had they paid them? They continually received—did they also dispense the goodness of God? If unwilling now to think of these unsettled accounts, they should remember that one debt, notwithstanding all their reluctance, they would be obliged to pay—the debt of nature: and then would follow the final adjustment of all things—then would each one reap as he had sowed below.

All listened with deep attention to the discourse, which was well calculated to arrest the most careless trifler; and thoughts were suggested, and resolves were formed that day, which acted, long afterward, as a stimulus to the discharge of duty. The hand which scattered that precious seed has since been laid low in the dust; but the "winged words" did not fall to the ground: they still live, and produce results, in immortal spirits.

There was no service in the afternoon. "Oh dear!" said George, "I suppose it's not right to say so, but it's rather stupid, I think. How we do miss Sunday School! We can't play to-day, and a fellow like me doesn't want to read the whole time: what on earth can we do? Cousin Mary, are you too much engaged with your book to help us poor souls?"

With a smile, Mary shut it up. "How would you like Bible stories?" said she. "If you please, I'll tell you one, keeping to Scriptural facts, but clothing them in my own language, and omitting the name, or giving a false one. And then you are to find out whom it is I have been telling you about, and to answer the questions I may ask you. How would you like that?"

It was agreed that it would be delightful: so Mary began by telling the story of

The Good Grandmother.

In ancient times, in a country of the East, there lived a Queen Dowager, whose heart was eaten up by ambition. She was a king's daughter, and had ever been accustomed to rule. While her husband lived she had exerted great influence at court, and had turned away his heart from the true and established religion of the state to the cruel worship of the idols of her native land; and this she accomplished, although he had been religiously educated, and was the son of an eminently good man. Little did it affect her, that a highly-distinguished prophet of God wrote a letter to the king her husband, foretelling the evils that should befall himself, his family, and his kingdom, and that this prophecy had been literally fulfilled. Little did it humble her proud spirit, that by the common consent, her degenerate husband, who, through her persuasions and example, had been led away from the path of duty, was judged unworthy to be interred within the sepulchres of his ancestors, and was buried apart. She had too much of her mother within her to be daunted by such trifles as these; for both of her parents had acquired an eminence in wickedness which have made their names by-words: but her mother's especially is considered almost a synonym for every thing that is unlovely in woman.

After her husband's death, her son succeeded to the throne, and he also did wickedly, for he had been educated under his mother's eyes, trod in her footsteps, and courted the society of her connections. And this was the cause of his death; for while paying a visit at the court of his uncle, her brother, they both were killed together in a successful insurrection. And now, if ever, if any thing of the woman was left in her nature, the queen's heart would be softened and humbled: at one fell swoop, death had carried off her only son, her brother, and every member of her father's house; she only was left, of all that proud and numerous family. Her aged mother, aged, but not venerable, although now a great-grandmother, had met her fate in a characteristic manner. Determined, if she must die, to do so like a queen, she had put on her royal robes, and adorned herself with jewels, and caused her withered face, upon which every evil passion had left its mark, to be painted into some semblance of youth and beauty. Her eyelids were stained with the dark antimony still used in the East, to restore, if possible, the former brilliant softness to eyes of hard, blazing, wicked blackness. Gazing from an upper window of the palace upon the usurper, as he drove into the courtyard, the fearless woman, resolved to show her spirit to the last, railed upon him, and quoted a notable instance from history of one who, like him, had been a successful rebel, but had reigned for only seven days. Enraged at her insolence, her enemy, looking up, asked, "Who in the palace is on my side?" At these words, some officers of the household cast her down from the window: thus ingloriously she died, and the prancing horses of the chariot trampled over her. He who now was universally acknowledged to be the king, soon gave orders that she should be buried, observing that, wretch as she was, she was of royal blood. But the vulture and the jackal had been before him: naught remained of that haughty, revengeful, and heaven-defying woman, save the skull, the feet, and the palms of her hands. Thus, to the very letter, was fulfilled the prediction of a prophet, one of her contemporaries: it was the same individual who had sent an epistle to her son-in-law, the late husband of our heroine, announcing his fate. This fearless reprover of kings did not live to see the accomplishment of the divine messages he was commissioned to deliver, and yet he had not died: read me that riddle, if you can.

When the queen, who, from one distinguishing act of her life, I have called the good grandmother, heard the sad tidings of the death of her only son, of her mother, and of all her kin, what did she? mourn, and weep, and give herself up to melancholy? she was quite incapable of such weakness. If she had no children left, she at least had grandchildren—she must take care of them—the tender little playful babes, her own flesh and blood, and all that was left upon the earth of her late son. And she did take care of them—the care that Pharaoh took of the Israelitish infants—the care that Herod took of the nurslings at Bethlehem—the care that the tiger takes of the lamb. She was worse than the tigress; for the latter will at least defend her young ones from all attacks, even at the peril of her own life. But she—shame of her sex!—commanded the immediate execution of all the children of her son, that she might reign alone, and never be called upon to resign the sceptre to a lawful heir.

They are slain! The shouts and laughter of that band of little ones is stopped forever—the galleries will never more re-echo to their youthful voices; vainly did they rush into the arms of their nurses for protection. They are slain; all save one! For if they have a grandmother they also have an aunt, and one who is ruled by different principles. She is the sister of their father, but probably had not the same mother as he: she early chose the paths of piety and goodness, and was wedded to a man of uncommon firmness and of the noblest character—the high priest of the nation. Soon as she had an intimation of the intentions of the queen, she hastened to the palace. But one only could she save—a little crowing babe, whom, with his nurse, she secreted in a safe place, until, under cover of the night, she was able to convey them to her own abode.

There, in the house of the Lord, the young child was reared. For six years he was hidden, and tenderly and carefully trained in the fear of God, while his grandmother reigned supreme in the land, to the subversion of all law and order. But when the prince was seven years old, the high priest, his uncle, took measures to secure to him the possession of his rights. He consulted with the wisest of the nation, and brought together the Levites from all parts of the land, and divided them into bands, giving each a particular post, to guard against surprise. He then brought forth from the treasuries of the temple the spears, shields, and bucklers which had belonged to King David, and distributed them among the captains of the several divisions. When all arrangements were made, and the people who were gathered together in the spacious courts for worship, waited to see what was about to happen, he retired; and came back, in his priestly garments, with the mitre upon his head, on which was written, on a golden plate, HOLINESS TO THE LORD—this sentence showing the intention of the priestly office. His robe, or under-garment, which hung in rich folds down to his feet, was of deep blue, and around the hem were alternate pomegranates of brilliant colors, and little golden bells, which made a tinkling sound as he moved along. Above this was worn the ephod, splendidly embroidered in gold, and blue, and purple, and scarlet, with a long and broad girdle at the waist, manufactured of the same gorgeous materials. Upon his bosom flashed the breastplate, composed of twelve large precious stones, all different, upon each one of which was engraved the name of a tribe of Israel; so that the High Priest bore them all upon his heart, when he ministered before the Lord. Well was this magnificent dress, which was made "for glory and for beauty," calculated to set off the dignity of the holy office, and to make the people gaze in admiring awe. But it was not the splendor of the pontifical robes, it was not the inspiring person of the high priest, at which the assembled multitudes eagerly gazed, when the Head of the Church again appeared before them. It was a little boy, of seven years old, who now attracted their attention—a pretty child, arrayed in royal garments, who was led forward by the venerable man. His stand was taken beside a pillar, and the guards, with drawn swords, gathered round him: his uncle placed upon his clustering curls the golden circlet, the symbol of how much power, what heavy cares, and what fearful responsibility! And when the people, long crushed to the earth by tyrannical rule, beheld it, hope again awaked in their hearts, and, with one accord, they clapped their hands, and shouted out, "God save the King!" And the trumpeters sounded aloud, and the harpers struck up the notes of praise and joy, and the full choir of trained singers joined in the jubilee. And thus was the young king proclaimed—while, in the innocence of childhood, he wonderingly looked on.

But the queen heard the shouts in her palace. For the first time in her life, it is most probable, she came to the house of God—but she came not to worship. "What means this riotous assembly?" she thought. "Can it be, that the vile rabble dare to think of revolt—against me? I will go, even alone, and awe them by my presence: it shall never be said that my mother's daughter feared aught in heaven above or the earth beneath." She went, that audacious woman, with all her crimes upon her head, and entered alone into the temple of the Holy One. She went to her death. The people made way for her, although they gazed upon her with loathing; and within the sanctuary she beheld the grandson, whom she had long thought to be numbered with the dead, in royal array, with the crown upon his head. When she saw this, she rent her clothes, and cried loudly, "Treason! treason!" But none joined in the cry: an ominous silence pervaded that vast assembly, and looks of hatred were cast upon her from the crowd. Seeing plainly that all were against her, her insolent pride gave way, and she turned to flee from that mass of stern, relentless eyes, all gazing, as it were, into her black and blood-stained heart. As she passed along, the people shrank back, as if an accursed thing were near them; and when she had passed from the consecrated limits, she was slain. None shed a tear over her grave, but the people enjoyed rest and peace, now that her tyranny was terminated.

"And that was the end of her!" said George. "And well she deserved her fate. A good grandmother, indeed! But who was she?"

"That's the very thing I want to know," replied Mary. "But perhaps some of you can tell me who her very lovely mother was?"

"There is no mistaking her," said Amy. "There is only one Jezebel in the world, I hope. Think of the horrid old thing, painting herself off, and trying to look like a beauty! I wonder if she thought she could possibly captivate the murderer of her son!"

"Hardly that, I should think. Perhaps it was on the same principle that Julius Caesar drew his robe around him, before his death—an idea of the proprieties becoming the station they occupied. It reminds me of a passage in Pope, describing 'the ruling passion strong in death:'

"'Odious—in woollen! 'twould a saint provoke,' (Were the last words that poor Narcissa spoke;) No, let a charming chintz and Brussels' lace Wrap my cold limbs, and shade my lifeless face; One would not, sure, be frightful when one's dead: And—Betty—give this cheek a little red.'

And now, can you tell me who was that prophet that sent a letter to the husband of 'the good grandmother,' and who predicted the fate of her parents, Ahab and Jezebel?"

"He who did not live to see their accomplishment, and yet was not dead," said Cornelia. "Oh, I remember well about that: it was Elijah, the Tishbite, who had ascended to heaven without dying. By the way, how do you understand that saying of Elisha's, Mary—'My father, my father! the chariot of Israel, and the horsemen thereof?' I never knew rightly whether the latter part of his exclamation referred to the ascending prophet, or to the chariot and horses of fire."

"I once asked our clergyman that very question; and he told me that it alluded to Elijah himself, and meant to say, that he was the defence of the country, and a whole host in himself: comprising cavalry, and those heavy chariots filled with warriors, and armed with scythes on either side, which did such deadly execution in ancient warfare. I suppose Elisha thought, How can I, how can our country exist without you!"

"I remember now the name of 'the good grandmother,'" said Ellen, smiling. "It was Athaliah—and a worthy daughter she was for Ahab and Jezebel to leave as a legacy to the world. And her son was Ahaziah, who was killed in Samaria, while on a visit to his uncle, King Jehoram. And now I think some one else should tell who the usurper was, under whose chariot-wheels the wicked Jezebel was slain."

"It was Jehu, the furious driver," answered her brother Tom; "the same eminently pious individual who invited a friend to 'go with him and see his zeal for the Lord,' when he intended to murder the rest of Ahab's relations. A fine way of showing goodness, that!"

"And who was the good aunt?"

"You must really let me look for that," said Amy, getting a Bible. "It was Jehosheba, and her husband, the high priest, was named Jehoiada, and the little king was Joash, or Jehoash. I'm sorry to see that he was only kept straight by his uncle: as soon as he died, the young monarch, appears to have become as bad as any of them."

"And now, Cousin Mary, tell us another story!" said Harry.

"Very well, if you wish it. I'll call this tale

The Prophet and the Fortune-Tellers.

In former times there was a king of Judah, an excellent man, who, through some unaccountable ideas of policy, had entered into an alliance with a very wicked king of Israel, and had even encouraged his son to marry the daughter of his idolatrous neighbor. On one occasion, he was paying a visit to his ally, when the latter proposed to him that they should join together in recovering a city which had formerly belonged to the Jewish nation, from their enemy, the King of Syria. He replied, that they were of one blood, and had but one interest, and that he should most gladly aid him; but cautiously added, that it was his particular wish that God's oracle should be consulted, as he did not like to undertake any thing without His direction. To gratify this superstitious whim, as he considered it, the Israelitish monarch collected together about four hundred false prophets, who were ready to say any thing that would give him pleasure, and asked whether he should or should not go up against the city. Of course, they obsequiously replied, "Go up; for the Lord shall deliver it into the hand of the king."

But the King of Judah wag not satisfied. He had seen real, true prophets of God, and they had neither looked nor acted like these very smooth, courtier-like men. He mistrusted these pretenders, and said to his brother-monarch, "Is there not another, a prophet of Jehovah, of whom we could inquire the Lord's will?"

The latter answered, "Yes, there is another man; but I did not send for him, for I hate the very sight of his face. Instead of predicting good, he makes a point of foretelling evil; I detest that man." But his more amiable and pious friend said, "Pray, do not speak so, your Highness: it is not right." Seeing that he was unwilling to go until he had consulted the prophet, the King of Israel ordered the latter to be sent for. The two sovereigns awaited him in state, in their royal robes upon their thrones, at the large open space always left in Oriental cities at the entrance of the gates, for public meetings, business, and courts of justice.

Before the messenger returned, the false prophets had renewed their predictions of a safe and successful career to the two kings; and one of them had distinguished himself by making horns of iron, which he placed upon his head, agreeably to the allegorical style of the East, and said: "Thus shalt thou push against thy enemies, and shalt overcome them, until they be utterly consumed."

Meanwhile, the royal messenger approached with the prophet; and being a good-natured man and a courtier, he begged the latter not to affront his master, by speaking differently from the other seers, who all, with one accord, joined in predicting peace and success. But the undaunted man of God replied, that what Jehovah revealed to him he would speak, neither more nor less.

At last, they arrived in the presence of royalty; and the King of Israel said to him, "Speak, and declare the counsel of God: shall we go up against the city, or shall we abandon our undertaking?" With a manner of cutting irony—for he well knew that the monarch neither cared to know the will of the Lord, nor would obey it, when known—the prophet answered, quoting the language of the fortune-tellers around him: "Go up, and prosper; for the Lord will deliver it into the hand of the king." But it was so evident that there was something behind this satire, that the idolatrous prince replied to him, "How often must I be compelled to tell you to speak the truth, and to declare the will of Heaven?"

Then the prophet spoke, and this time the mockery had vanished from his tone and manner, and his voice was serious and sad: "I see a vision that distresses me: all Israel is scattered upon the hills, like sheep which have no shepherd. And Jehovah says, 'These have no master: let each one return to his house in peace.'"

When he heard this, the King of Israel turned to his friend: "Now you see a proof of my words," said he. "Did I not tell you that he would never predict aught but evil of me?"

But the prophet still spoke on: "I have a parable to tell thee, O mighty King. I saw, sitting upon his lofty throne, one mightier than thou—the King of kings; and upon his right hand and upon his left were ranged all the host of heaven. And he said, 'Who shall persuade the Lord of Israel to go up against Ramoth-Gilead to his destruction?' And various counsel was given from different sources. At last, a Power spoke, and offered to go forth as a lying spirit in the mouth of all the king's prophets. The Lord answered him, 'Go, and thou shalt likewise succeed.' This, O monarch, is my parable: a lying spirit has gone forth into thy prophets; for truly, Jehovah hath spoken evil concerning thee."

At these words, the man who had made himself so especially prominent in predicting good fortune to the expedition came up to the prophet, and struck him upon the cheek, with an insulting speech; and the king commanded that he should be carried to the governor of the city, and kept closely confined, upon bread and water, until he returned in peace and triumph, having conquered all his enemies. But the prophet answered, "If thou return at all in peace, the Lord hath not spoken by me."

But, unrestrained by any thing he said, the two princes went forth to the battle. More completely to insure his safety, the Israelitish monarch disguised himself, and requested the King of Judah to wear his royal robes, which he accordingly did. But the Syrians had received orders to aim only at the enemy's head and leader, and not to attack the common people. This nearly caused the death of the King of Judah, who wore his friend's conspicuous garments, and who was pursued, and almost slain, before the mistake was discovered. But notwithstanding his precaution in wearing a counterfeit dress, the fated king did not escape. An arrow, shot by chance, struck him in a vital part, and he died. When the death of their lord was known, all Israel fled in dismay, and every man sought the shelter of his own home. We may presume that the true prophet was liberated from his confinement, and that the base and impudent impostor was punished as he deserved.

"Are not these kings near relatives of 'the good grandmother?'" said Charlie Bolton.

"You are right," replied Mary. "They are her father, Ahab, and her father-in-law, Jehoshaphat. Who was the true prophet, and who the false?"

"The true prophet was Micaiah, the son of Imlah; and the other—I think his horns should have been made of brass, impudent fellow that he was—was called Zedekiah."

Other Bible stories were called for, which were found so interesting, and, as the younger children confessed, so new to many of them, that all agreed to begin a more systematic mode of reading the Scriptures—that treasury of historic truth, of varied biography, and of poetic beauty. John Wyndham remarked that the best thing about the romantic incidents in the Bible was, that you could be sure they had all really happened: and the events were told with so much simplicity, and the characters were so natural and life-like, that even a dull fellow like him, who had no more imagination than a door-post, could see it as if it were passing before his eyes. And another thing that struck him was, that all was related without the exclamations, and the comments upon the incidents and the people, which you find in common books: you were treated as if you had both sense and conscience enough to find out the moral intention of the narrative, and that made you think a great deal more than if it was explained out in full. The young people all got their Bibles, and counting the chapters, formed a plan for reading through the whole book once a year. They found that if they read three chapters a day, and occasionally an extra one, they could accomplish it: and resolved to begin in Genesis, the Psalms, and St. Matthew's Gospel, in order to give more variety. When this point was settled, Amy proposed capping Bible verses: she said they could have their books before them to help them a little, if their memories failed. One was to recite a verse, and the next another, beginning with the letter which ended the preceding passage; and if the person, whose turn it was, hesitated, any one else who first thought of a suitable sentence should recite it. But it ought to be something which made good sense, when disconnected from the adjoining verses: and it was a rule of the game, that if any one present did not understand the meaning of a quotation, they should talk it over until they got some light upon the subject.

Amy began: "'Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth.'"

"Stop!" cried Lewis. "For if that means that gentle, patient, forgiving people, shall become rich and great, I don't understand it at all."

"Certainly it cannot mean that," replied his sister Ellen. "I have heard it explained in this way:—they shall possess the best blessings of earth, by living in love and peace, and having easy consciences."

"That makes a very good sense, I think," said Tom; "but I have heard another explanation given, which I like better. The earth, in that place and in many others, can be translated land, with equal propriety; and as the land of Canaan was promised to the Jews as a reward, the heavenly Canaan is held out as a recompense to Christians."

"I'm satisfied," said Lewis. "Let me see—h—'Hear, O heavens, and give ear, O earth, for the Lord hath spoken.'"

"'Never man spake like this man,'" added George.

"I think there are some words in the verse before that N," said Gertrude.

"But that is of no consequence," replied Amy. "When a clause makes a complete sense in itself, that answers, even if it is not at the beginning of a verse. You know that the division of the Bible into chapters and verses is quite a modern thing."

"Indeed, I did not know it," said Gertrude. "Are you quite sure?"

"Oh, yes, certain. I don't know when, or by whom it was divided into chapters—but my Sunday-school teacher has told me that the books of the Old Testament were not parcelled out in that way among the Jews. They had other, and longer divisions, one of which was read every Sabbath day in the synagogues, so that the whole was heard by the people, in the course of the year. She told me that the New Testament was first distributed into chapters—it was not originally written so—and then the Old; and that in some places it would make better sense if the end of one chapter was joined to the beginning of the next."

"And how is it about the verses, Amy?"

"It was first separated into verses by Robert Stephens, a publisher, when riding on horseback between Paris and Lyons: he marked it thus as he rode along. He was about to publish an edition of the Bible, and a concordance, and divided it for facility of reference. This was in the middle of the sixteenth century."

"There is one thing I've always wanted to know," said John. "Along the margin, among the references, every now and then there are a few words—generally, or so and so. What is the meaning of that?"

"That occurs when the translators were doubtful which of two words gives the right meaning," said Mrs. Wyndham, coming forward. "And I have frequently noticed, that the one in the margin is preferable to the other."

"Another point I wish to have explained," said Cornelia. "Why is it that in all Bibles some words are put in Italics? There must be a reason."

"Yes, my dear, there certainly is. The translators did not find these in the original text, but thought them necessary to make up the sense. You know that you are obliged to take such liberties in rendering any foreign language into English. But they very properly distinguished their words from those found in the original; and occasionally, when the former are omitted, the passage is more forcible, and gives a slightly different sense. It is well to remember this."

"But we have wandered very far from our game," said Charlie Bolton. "'Never man spake like this man,' was the last—another N—'Not unto us, O Lord, not unto us, but unto thy name give glory.'"

"'Ye are the light of the world. A city that is set on a hill cannot be hid.'"

"'Divers weights and divers measures, both of them are alike abomination unto the Lord.'"

"'Drink waters out of thy own cistern, and running waters out of thy own well.'"

"'Love not sleep, lest thou come to poverty.'"

And so the game went on, until, to the surprise of all, Caesar announced that tea was ready, and they found that the afternoon had quite passed away, in pleasant and profitable talk.

In the evening, Ellen Green asked her aunt if she would not consent to convert them into a Bible-class, as an hour could be spent very agreeably in that way. Of course, Mrs. Wyndham agreed to the proposition, and requested the young party to bring Bibles in as many different languages as they could understand. They had Latin, Greek, and German versions in the library, which the boys would find useful, as all the older ones were pretty well versed in the classics, and Tom Green was studying German; and as she had seen Amy reading her French Testament, and Ellen the Italian, she knew they were provided for. Accordingly, they ran to get their books; and by comparing the various translations, they found that the sense was frequently made clearer. Each one read a verse; and then, before the next person proceeded, Mrs. Wyndham explained it, and asked questions, which frequently led to the most animated conversation. By requiring a definition of all words which were not perfectly familiar, she arrested their attention. When she, or any other member of the class, thought of a passage in Scripture which threw light upon the subject, all searched for it, with the aid of the Concordance. Any peculiarity of rites, manners, customs, etc., was made more intelligible by the Bible Dictionary; and when the whole lesson was finished, the young people gave a summary of the religious truth, and practical inferences to be deduced from it.

A quotation from the Book of Daniel led to some pleasant talk about that prophet, his greatly diversified life, and the important changes in the world's history which he witnessed. Mrs. Wyndham remarked that the Jews have a tradition which in itself is very probable, that the venerable man pointed out to Cyrus, after his conquest of Babylon, the verses in Isaiah, wherein he is spoken of by name, as conquering by the power of the Lord, and giving orders to rebuild Jerusalem and the temple: and also that other passage, in which the destruction of the Babylonish empire by the Medes is foretold, both prophecies being recorded more than a hundred years before the birth of the mighty king by whom they were accomplished.

"I never heard of that," said Cornelia. "But, of course, it would be the most likely thing for Daniel to do. You can imagine the interest with which Cyrus would listen to these predictions about himself—and from the lips of such a noble, lovely, white-haired man as Daniel must have been. I don't wonder at all that he gave the decree to rebuild Jerusalem."

"This reminds me of another Jewish tradition, recorded in Josephus," rejoined Mrs. Wyndham. "This one, I think, is not at all probable; but as it would interest you, I will narrate it. Alexander the Great, while engaged in the siege of Tyre, sent orders to the high priest at Jerusalem, to furnish his army with provisions, as they had been in the habit of doing to Darius. But Jaddus, the high priest, gave answer that they were still bound by their oath to the King of Persia, and that, while he lived, they could not transfer their allegiance to another. This noble response awakened the rage of Alexander, who, as soon as Tyre was reduced, marched towards Jerusalem, determined to inflict signal vengeance upon that city. The inhabitants, totally unable to withstand the conqueror, were filled with consternation. Their town was, indeed, admirably fortified; but since Tyre, the Queen of the Sea, had been subdued, how could they hope to escape? Weeping and loud lamentations were heard throughout the streets. The high priest knew that his only hope was in help from on high: he ordered prayers and sacrifices to be offered up, and awaited the result, confident that he had at least discharged his duty.

"But on the night before the mighty Greek arrived, Jaddus received directions, in a dream, to array the streets with flowers, and to go forth, in his pontifical robes, to meet the victor, followed by the people, dressed in white. He awoke, with fresh hope and energy, told his dream to the assembled populace, and gave orders that the city should be decked with garlands, triumphal arches, and gay streamers, and that the gates should be left open. When all preparations were made, he marched out, agreeably to the commandment, at the head of the priests and people, and awaited the approach of the invaders, at a point commanding a beautiful view of the city, with its open gates, unarmed walls, and smiling environs. At last, the clank of weapons was heard; and, with military music, the victorious army moved along, anxious for fresh conquests. But how different was their reception from that they had anticipated! Many, it is true, had come out to meet them, but all in the garb of peace; dressed in white, and crowned with flowers, as if for a festival. Hostility died away in the bosoms of the warriors, as they gazed on these defenceless men,—few are so brutal as to attack the unresisting and the friendly. But what was the astonishment of the whole army, when they beheld the fiery Alexander himself go forward towards the Jewish high priest, who headed the brilliant procession, and humbly kneel down at his feet! Then rising, he embraced him. The Israelites themselves were amazed, and acknowledged the merciful interposition of God. At length, Parmenio addressed the king, and asked why he, before whom monarchs and nations trembled, and at whose feet all were ready to fall, should condescend thus to do homage to a man? Alexander replied, 'that he did not bow down to the man, but to the mighty name which was written upon his forehead—to the great God to whom he was consecrated. For that, while he was yet in Macedon, meditating the expedition to Asia, he had been favored with a remarkable dream, in which he had beheld this very man, in his pontifical robes, who had addressed him, encouraging him to persevere in his undertaking. He told him that he, Alexander, was acting under the immediate guidance of God, and that he should prosper. And now,' continued the king, 'I do not pay obeisance to the man, but to the God whose high priest he is, and who has given success to my arms.'

"The Jews escorted him into their capital with shouts of applause and loud rejoicings. The Grecian monarch then entered the temple, and offered sacrifices, complying with all the requirements of the law: and Jaddus showed him, in the Book of Daniel, the prophecy concerning himself and his kingdom overcoming the Medo-Persian realm. Mary, will you be kind enough to read it?"

Mary opened the book at the 8th chapter, 3d verse: "Then I lifted up mine eyes, and behold, there stood before the river a ram which had two horns: and the two horns were high; but one was higher than the other, and the higher came up last.

"I saw the ram pushing westward, and northward, and southward; so that no beast might stand before him, neither was there any that could deliver out of his hand; but he did according to his will, and became great.

"And as I was considering, behold, an he-goat came from the west on the face of the whole earth, and touched not the ground: and the goat had a notable horn between his eyes.

"And he came to the ram which had two horns, which I had seen standing before the river, and ran unto him in the fury of his power.

"And I saw him come close unto the ram, and he was moved with choler against him, and smote the ram, and brake his two horns: and there was no power in the ram to stand before him, but he cast him down to the ground, and stamped upon him: and there was none that could deliver the ram out of his hand.

"Therefore the he-goat waxed very great: and when he was strong, the great horn was broken; and for it came up four notable ones towards the four winds of heaven."

And at the twentieth verse it says: "The ram which thou sawest having two horns are the kings of Media and Persia.

"And the rough goat is the king of Grecia: and the great horn which is between his eyes is the first king.

"Now that being broken, whereas four stood up for it, four kingdoms shall stand up out of the nation, but not in his power."

"This is very plain, Aunt Lucy," said Mary; "and I suppose that the larger horn of the ram, which came up last, refers to the power of Persia, which overshadowed Media, originally so much its superior. If you notice, the ram comes from the east, and pushes westward, northward, and southward: while the he-goat comes from the west to attack the ram, and so rapidly, that he is represented as not touching the ground."

"I suppose that is a poetical expression," said John; "but if it were anywhere else but in the Bible, I'd say it was far-fetched."

"It is exactly in unison with the figurative language of the East," replied Mrs. Wyndham. "The Arab praises the swiftness of his steed, at this day, by saying, that before his hoof touches the ground, he is out of sight. That's a bold figure for you."

"I love poetical expressions," said Amy.

"And I prefer plain English, not Arabian," answered John.

"I think I can answer for one thing," said Charlie. "When Jaddus showed Alexander that prediction, he did not lay much stress upon the verse about the great horn being broken while it was yet strong, and four others coming up in its place. It all came true enough, but Alexander would not have liked that part as well as the rest, about his conquests."

"Do you, who are fresh from school, remember the names of the four generals and kingdoms who succeeded him?" rejoined Mrs. Wyndham.

"Ptolemy seized Egypt; Seleucus, Syria and Babylon; Lysimachus, Asia Minor; and Cassander took Greece for his share of the plunder. But though these were notable horns, they were none of them in his power—none could compare with Alexander."

"Auntie," said Amy, "don't you think Alexander must have seen these predictions—you know how much he favored the Jews, and what especial privileges he gave them in his city, Alexandria?"

"Well, perhaps so," said Mrs. Wyndham, smiling. "I see you want to believe it, at any rate. There is no proof to the contrary, so you might as well indulge your organ of wonder."



CHAPTER VII.

SEQUEL TO THE ORPHAN'S TALE.—WHO CAN HE BE?—ELEMENTS.—THE ASTROLOGERS.

On Monday morning, our merry party at the Grange breakfasted rather earlier than usual, and Mr. Wyndham and Alice Bolton set off for Philadelphia, full of eagerness to hunt up an uncle for little Margaret Roscoe. Charlie told him, laughingly, that he was sure he would persuade some one to be her uncle, if rich Mr. Roscoe did not prove to be the right man: he could pick one up somewhere along the streets. But Mr. Wyndham replied, with an offended air, that he was sorry he had not yet learned his worth: good uncles, like him, were not to be met with every day—they should be valued accordingly.

"Do you remember the anecdote about Frederic the Great, of Prussia?" asked his wife.

"There are many funny stories told of him," answered Mr. Wyndham; "which is the one you refer to?"

"One Sunday, a young minister preached an admirable sermon before him, showing uncommon talent and erudition. Frederic afterwards sent for him, and asked where he was settled. 'Unfortunately, Sire, I have had no opportunity of being installed anywhere: I have never had a living presented to me.' 'But what is the reason?—you preach an excellent discourse, and appear to be an active young man.' 'Alas! Sire, I have no uncle.' 'Then I'll be your uncle, said Frederic. And he kept his word: the next vacancy in the ecclesiastical appointments was filled up with the name of his adopted nephew."

"But, Aunt," said Harry, "I can't see what his having no uncle had to do with it."

"You know that in most other parts of Christendom, where the stars and the stripes do not float in the breeze, what we call the voluntary principle in church maintenance and government is not the rule at all. Here, people choose their own clergymen, and of course it is their business to support them. But in nearly the whole of Europe, rulers are so very paternal as to take that trouble and responsibility off the shoulders of the people: they are kind enough to do all their thinking for them. The subjects pay very heavy taxes; and from these, and from old endowments, all the expenses of the national establishments are discharged. They look at it in the same light as your parents do, when they pay your school-bills—it's a duty they owe you to see that you are properly taught; but it would be very weak in them to consult you as to which teacher you preferred, and what school you chose to go to—they're the best judges, of course."

"But, Aunt Lucy! you surely don't mean to say that the governments are the best judges as to what church the people shall attend, and what ministers they shall have?"

"I do not mean to say that is my opinion, of course—that would be rather anti-American, and not at all Aunty-Lucyish. No, no; I stand up for the rights of conscience, and approve of treating grown men, and children too, as if they had reason and common sense; and then they will be far more likely to possess it, than if they are always kept under an iron rule. But, on the other side of the water, they have not so exalted an opinion of the mass of the people as we have; and the government, in some form—either through ecclesiastical boards, or inspectors of churches, or members of the aristocracy—exercises the power of filling vacant churches. This is the reason why it is important to have an uncle; in other words, some influential person to aid you in rising."

"Even the memory of an illustrious uncle is sometimes a stepping-stone," remarked Charlie Bolton. "The late Emperor Louis Napoleon is an example—lucky fellow; his uncle's name and fame got him a throne—with the help of considerable cheating."

"Not so lucky, if you look at his end," said John. "But from other and quite disinterested motives, I intend to keep as close to my uncle as he. I shall very soon begin to subscribe myself John Wyndham, Junior, and I am determined to be like you, uncle—as like as your own shadow."

"Then you will be an illustrious example of failure, my boy—for my shadow, although always near me, is generally cast down, which I never am—and it always looks away from the sunny side, you know, which I don't do. Besides, a shadow has no particular character: any one's shadow would suit me as well as my own."

"I intend to be an original, for my part!" cried Cornelia, laughing. "I won't be cast in anybody's mould, as if I were a bullet—not I!"

"That's right, my dear original!" said her uncle, pinching her rosy, dimpled, laughter-loving cheek. "The grave world always wants a pert little Cornelia to tease it out of its peculiarities: people in old times kept their jesters, and you're nearly as good!"

"Why, uncle! you insult me! you've quite mistaken my character; I intend to be the dignified Miss Wyndham!"

"Oh, pray, spare us that infliction!" replied her uncle, laughingly, jumping into the carriage.

Mr. Wyndham met with good success. He arrived at Mr. Roscoe's door at the moment that gentleman was about to leave home. Alice Bolton, who was an especial favorite of his, introduced her uncle; and when he understood that they had private business with him, he led them up to his library, where, hanging over the mantle-piece, Mr. Wyndham immediately saw a portrait, the counterpart of the one in his possession, although evidently taken some years before the miniature. Involuntarily, he stopped before it, and gazed earnestly. Mr. Roscoe sighed. "Here is all that remains," said he, "of a dear and only brother. I value this picture more than any thing else in my house, except its living furniture." "Had your brother no family, sir? no wife or child?" rejoined Mr. Wyndham. "That is rather a tender subject, my dear sir," answered Mr. Roscoe: "one that has caused me much sorrow, and some self-reproach. He left a wife and child, indeed, who were to join me in America. I have reason to think they sailed; but from that day to this, I have heard no tidings from them. Would to God I knew their fate! whether the unknown ship in which they took passage went down at sea, or what else may have happened, I know not. All my efforts to unravel the mystery have been in vain." "Perhaps I can help you," said Mr. Wyndham, with that peculiarly benevolent smile, which opened all hearts to him, as if by magic. "You recognize this countenance?" continued he, holding up to him little Maggie's medallion. "My brother Malcom! tell me, sir, tell me where you got this; it was his wife's!" "His sweet little daughter—your niece, Margaret Roscoe—handed it to my wife a few days ago. She knows not she has an uncle living: her mother is dead, and she is dwelling in comparative poverty near my house." "I cannot doubt it, from this picture—although it is all a mystery still. But I must see her—my dear brother's child. I will order up my carriage immediately, and beg you to take seats in it. I must see her as soon as possible."

"On that very account I have made arrangements for you to come out to The Grange in mine," replied Mr. Wyndham. "We can explain all things by the way; and you can return whenever you say the word. You will find Old Caesar quite at your disposal."

"I gratefully accept your offer, my dear sir, and can never be sufficiently thankful to you, if you indeed restore to me my brother's child. I will order my carriage to follow us to The Grange."

Accordingly, he acquainted his family, in few words and great haste, with the discovery that had been made, and left Carrie, Alan, and Malcom in an intense state of excitement, at the idea of regaining the long-lost cousin. The three then drove immediately to Mrs. Norton's little cottage, where the gentle and womanly child was busily engaged at her work—

"Stitch, stitch, stitch, Band, gusset, and seam—"

striving, by her small, but active fingers, to aid in the support of that family which had sheltered her in adversity. As the door opened, she raised her deep blue eyes—the very reflection of her father's. The work fell from her hands; that face reminded her of home, of her grandfather, of her unknown uncle. They have recognized each other; the ties of blood speak out in their hearts; the long-severed are now united.

I will not attempt to raise the veil which hides from the world the strongest and purest affections of our nature: they were never intended for the common eye. But now, after the first rapture of meeting had subsided, there arose a tumult within the soul of our affectionate and grateful little Maggie: her heart urged her in two opposite directions. She felt, in an ardent and uncommon degree, that instinctive love of kindred which is implanted in our nature, and manifested so strongly by the natives of Scotland; but, on the other hand, gratitude and duty appeared to bid her stay with her benefactors. Mr. Roscoe perceived the struggle, and it raised his little niece highly in his estimation. He told her that it was not his wish to separate her entirely from the family to which she was so warmly attached; that she should come very frequently to see them, and that, as his niece, she would find it was in her power to aid them more effectually than she could do as their adopted daughter. Mrs. Norton, although with tears in her eyes, told her that she could not now dare to detain her; her duty was clear, to follow her uncle, who filled her father's place. Having made the arrangement to call for her in the afternoon, Mr. Roscoe accompanied Mr. Wyndham and Alice to the Grange, where he dined, and spent the intermediate time; greatly to the pleasure of our young party, who could not have felt sure of Maggie's future happiness, had they not themselves experienced the attractive influence of his kind, gentlemanly, and paternal manner.

After dinner, the two gentlemen had a little private conversation about Mrs. Norton. They wished to place her above poverty, and yet to do so in a way which should not mortify her feelings of independence. Mr. Roscoe remarked that "he had it in his power to bring Frederic forward in business; and that, if he were an industrious and intelligent lad, he should enjoy as good an opportunity of rising in the world as the son of the richest merchant in the land. He would see to it that the girls had the best advantages of education; and if they showed sufficient talent, they should be trained for teachers. But, meantime, what was to be done for Mrs. Norton? Would she accept from him an annuity, which, after all, was only a small return for her kindness to his brother's child?"

Mr. Wyndham thought that it would be a better plan to establish her in a neat dwelling and well-furnished shop, either in the country or in the city, where Frederic could board with her. He knew, from his wife's account, that she had an acquaintance with business, and had thought of setting her up, himself, in a small way: he should be happy to aid in the good work. But Mr. Roscoe insisted that the debt was all his own, and that no one should share with him the privilege of helping her; and, accordingly, this plan was determined upon as combining the most efficient assistance to the widow, with a regard to her self-respect.

In the evening, after the excitement produced by the unexpected turn in the fortunes of little Maggie and of her generous protectors had somewhat subsided, our happy party drew up to the fire, which crackled and blazed as if conscious of the animation it imparted to the group around it.

"What game shall we play to-night?" said Cornelia, who possessed such an active mind as to think it stupid and "poking," unless some visible fun was in progress. She never could think the fire was burning, unless the sparks flew right and left.

"What do you say to 'Who can he be?" asked Mary. "'Tis a game, partly of my own invention, that I think may prove entertaining. I've seen a set of historical cards, in which a description is read of a general, king, or other illustrious character; and any one having the card on which the corresponding name is printed, calls it out, and gains the other one. But if a beautiful Queen of Egypt, who lived a short time before the Christian era, is portrayed, it's quite as well for boys who own a Moses or a Mary of Scotland, not to be in too great a hurry to speak."

"We wouldn't be such dunces, I hope," cried Harry. "But, Cousin Mary, what's your improvement? I don't see any cards here at all."

"Oh no: I think when people have brains, they can play much better without them. My plan is, for a person to describe the individual, naming the country and age in which he lived, what gained him distinction, and every thing else that is interesting; and then any one of the circle can guess who the hero is, having the privilege of asking one question previously. If the conjecture be correct, the guesser describes another character, and so the game proceeds. Or, if you prefer it, you can narrate one well-known anecdote of your hero, and then three questions are allowed previous to a guess. I call it 'Who can he be?'"

"I think I shall like it," said Ellen. "If you please, I'll begin. Once there lived a Roman Emperor—he was a nephew, like Louis Napoleon and Cousin John. We often say people lived in the year one: he certainly did. He was a great patron of literature and the fine arts, and was a munificent friend to Virgil. Who can he be?"

"I can tell you, without asking my question," cried Tom. "Augustus was eminently the nephew, and succeeded his uncle, Julius Caesar, in the Empire. He was reigning at the time of our Saviour's birth, and of course lived in the year one: every thing fits—he's the man."

"You are right. Now 'tis your turn, brother Tom."

"The first of the English poets—who wrote splendid poetry, if only one could read it. 'Tis such hard, tough, jaw-breaking English, that it is little wonder his very name shows we must use the muscles of our mouths when we attempt it. He lived soon after the time of Wickliffe, and imbibed some of his ideas. Who can he be?"

"Who but Chaucer?" said Cornelia. "Now who is the hero who was almost elected King of Poland, but who lost that honor through the interference of a queen of England, unwilling to lose the brightest jewel of her crown by parting with him? He is mortally wounded on the battle-field, and thirsting for water. His soldiers procure some, with great difficulty, and he is about to raise it to his lips, when he sees the longing eye of a dying man, at his side, fixed upon it. 'He wants it more than I,' said he, and gave it to the poor fellow. Who can he be?"

"We are allowed three questions to an anecdote," said Alice, "but none are required here. There is only one Sir Philip Sydney. But who was the selfish queen, unwilling to have her noblest subject exalted beyond her control?"

"None other than good Queen Bess," answered Cornelia.

"And who is the poet that has immortalized Sydney's sister, in the following lines?

"'Underneath this marble hearse Lies the subject of all verse: Sydney's sister, Pembroke's mother— Death, ere thou hast slain another Good, and fair, and wise as she, Time shall throw his dart at thee!'"

"Was it 'rare Ben Jonson?'" cried Charlie Bolton.

"Even so, Charlie: now, what have you got to say for yourself?"

"I intend to disprove the assertion of Alice, that there is only one Sir Philip Sydney. Who was that other equally valiant knight, and much sweeter poet, who used to sing his own verses, accompanying himself upon the harp; and could thereby soothe the most troubled spirit? On one occasion, this brilliant genius, whose romantic adventures might fill a volume, and who subsequently became a king, was in exile, and was hidden, with some devoted followers, in a large cave. The enemies of his country were encamped around, and lay, in strong force, between his hiding-place and the small town where he had spent his childish years, which they also garrisoned. While in this situation, cut off from all intercourse with his home and friends, his heart turned to them with an intense longing; and in a moment of thoughtlessness, he said before three of his captains, 'Oh, what would I not give, could I once more drink water from the well, outside the gate of my native town!' At the peril of their lives, the gallant men fought their way through the hosts of the enemy, and returned with the water. But the poet-warrior would not drink: he poured it out as a libation to God, saying, 'Can I indeed drink the blood of these noble friends, who have risked their lives to gratify my idle whim? I cannot do it.' Now, who can be this poet, warrior, and king?"