When Gavin was twelve he went to the university, and also got a place in a shop as errand boy. He used to run through the streets between his work and his classes. Potatoes and saltfish which could be got at two5 pence the pound if bought by the half hundredweight were his food. There was not always a good meal for two, yet when Gavin reached home at night there was generally something ready for him, and Margaret had supped "hours ago." Gavin's hunger urged him to fall 10 to, but his love for his mother made him watchful.

"What did you have, yourself, mother?" he would demand suspiciously.

"Oh, I had a fine supper, I assure you."
"What had you?"

"I had potatoes for one thing."

"And dripping?"

"You may be sure.

66

'Mother, you're cheating me. The dripping hasn't been touched since yesterday."

"I don't-don't-care for dripping

- not much."

Then would Gavin stride the room fiercely, a queer little figure.

“Do you think I'll stand this, mother? Will I let myself be pampered with dripping and every delicacy 25 when you starve?"

66

Gavin, I really do not care for dripping."

"Then, I'll give up my classes, and we can have butter."

"I assure you I'm not hungry. It's different with a 30 growing laddie."

"I'm not a growing laddie," Gavin would say, bitterly; "but, mother, I warn you that not another bite passes my throat till I see you eating too."

So Margaret had to take her seat at the table, and when she said, "I "I can eat no more," Gavin retorted 5 sternly, "Nor will I, for I understand you.'

To Margaret it was happiness to sit through the long evenings sewing, and look over her work at Gavin as he read or wrote or recited to himself the learning of the schools. But she coughed every time the weather 10 changed, and then Gavin would start.

"You must get to your bed, mother," he would say, tearing himself from his books; or he would sit beside her and talk of the dream that was common to both; a dream of a manse where Margaret was mistress and 15 Gavin was called the minister. Every night Gavin was at his mother's bedside to wind her shawl round her feet, and while he did it Margaret smiled.

66

Mother, this is the chaff pillow you've taken out of my bed; and you've given me your feather one.”

"Gavin, you needn't change them. I will not have the feather pillow."

"Do you dare to think I'll let you sleep on chaff? Put up your head. Now, is that soft?"

20

"It's fine. I can not deny but what I sleep better on 25 feathers."

So the years passed, and soon Gavin would be a minister. He had now sermons to prepare, and every one of them was first preached to Margaret. How solemn his voice, how his eyes flashed, how stern were his admonitions! 30

5

10

“Gavin, such a sermon I never heard. The spirit of I'm ashamed you should have me for a

God is on you.

mother."

"God grant, mother, that you may never be ashamed to have me for a son."

"The Lord has you by the hand, Gavin: and mind I do not say that because you're my laddie."

66

"Yes, you do, mother, and well I know it, and yet it does me good to hear you.'

Busy days followed the call to Thrums, and Gavin had difficulty in forcing himself to his sermons when there was always something more to tell his mother about the weaving town they were going to, or about the manse or the furniture that had been transferred to him by the retiring 15 minister. The little room which had become so familiar that it seemed to be one of a family party of three had to be stripped, and many of its contents were sold.

20

"Gavin, Gavin," Margaret said many times in those last days at Glasgow, "to think it has all come true!"

"Let the last word you say in the house be a prayer of thankfulness,” she whispered to him when they were taking a final glance at the old home.

In the bare room they called the house, the little minister and his mother went on their knees, but, as it 25 chanced, their last word there was not addressed to God. "Gavin," Margaret whispered as he took her arm, "do you think this bonnet is becoming to me?"

- From "The Little Minister," by J. M. Barrie, by permission of American Publishers' Corporation.

CHARACTER OF A HAPPY LIFE.

How happy is he born and taught,

That serveth not another's will; Whose armor is his honest thought,

And simple truth his utmost skill!

Whose passions not his masters are,
Whose soul is still prepared for death,
Untied unto the worldly care

Of public fame, or private breath;

Who envies none that chance doth raise,
Or vice; who never understood
How deepest wounds are given by praise;
Nor rules of state, but rules of good:

Who hath his life from rumors freed,
Whose conscience is his strong retreat;
Whose state can neither flatterers feed,
Nor ruin make oppressors great;

Who God doth late and early pray,
More of his grace than gifts to lend ;
And entertains the harmless day
With a religious book or friend;

This man is freed from servile bands,
Of hope to rise, or fear to fall;
Lord of himself, though not of lands;
And having nothing, yet hath all.

GRADATIM.

Heaven is not reached at a single bound,
But we build the ladder by which we rise
From the lowly earth to the

vaulted skies,

And we mount to its summit round by round.

I count this thing to be greatly true,

That a noble deed is a step toward God,

Lifting the soul from the

common clod

To a purer air and a fairer

view.

J. G. Holland.

We rise by the things that are under our feet,
By what we have mastered of good or gain;
By the pride deposed or the passion slain,
And the vanquished ills that we hourly meet.

We hope, we aspire, we resolve, we trust,
When the morning calls to life and light;
But our hearts grow weary, and ere the night
Our lives are trailing the sordid dust.

We hope, we resolve, we aspire, we pray;

And we think that we mount the air on wings Beyond the recall of earthly things,

While our feet still cling to the heavy clay.