critical questions; till the fire reached the fat vein and leaped up in defiant emulation of gas-lights unknown, and then he would fall to again with renewed gusto. And Fleda hunted out in her portfolio what bits to give him first, and bade him as she gave them remember this and understand that, which was necessary to be borne in mind in the reading. And through all the brightening and fading blaze, and all the whispering, congratulating, explaining, and rejoicing going on at her side, Mrs. Rossitur and her tallow candle were devoted to each other, happily and engrossingly. At last however she flung the Magazine from her and turning from the table sat looking into the fire with a rather uncommonly careful and unsatisfied brow.

"What did you think of the second piece of poetry there, mother?” said Hugh ;- "that ballad?-The wind's voices'

it is called."

“The wind's voices'?—I don't know-I didn' tread it, I believe."

Why mother! I liked it very much. Do read itread it aloud.”

Mrs. Rossitur took up the Magazine again abstractedly, and read

Mamma, what makes your face so sad?
The sound of the wind makes me feel glad;
But whenever it blows, as grave you look,
As if you were reading a sorrowful book.

"A sorrowful book I am reading, dear,-
A book of weeping and pain and fear,-
A book deep printed on my heart,
Which I cannot read but the tears will start.

"That breeze to my ear was soft and mild
Just so, when I was a little child;
But now I hear in its freshening breath
The voices of those that sleep in death.'

"Mamma,' said the child with shaded brow,
'What is this book you are reading now?
And why do you read what makes you cry?'
'My child, it comes up before my eye.

"Tis the memory, love, of a far-off day
When my life's best friend was taken away;-
Of the weeks and months that my eyes were dim,
Watching for tidings-watching for him.

"Many a year has come and past
Since a ship sailed over the ocean fast,
Bound for a port on England's shore,-
She sailed-but was never heard of more."

"Mamma'—and she closer pressed her side,-
'Was that the time when my father died?.
Is it his ship you think you see?-
Dearest mamma-won't you speak to me?'

"The lady paused, but then calmly said,
'Yes Lucy-the sea was his dying bed.
And now whenever I hear the blast
I think again of that storm long past.

"The winds' fierce howlings hurt not me,
But I think how they beat on the pathless sea,-
Of the breaking mast-of the parting rope,
Of the anxious strife and the failing hope.'

"Mamma,' said the child with streaming eyes,
My father has gone above the skies;
And you tell me this world is mean and base
Compared with heaven-that blessed place.'

"My daughter, I know-I believe it all,-
I would not his spirit to earth recal.
The blest one he-his storm was brief,-
Mine, a long tempest of tears and grief.

"I have you my darling-I should not sigh.
I have one star more in my cloudy sky,-
The hope that we both shall join him there,
In that perfect rest from weeping and care.

"Well mother, how do you like it?" said Hugh whose eyes gave tender witness to his liking for it.

"It is pretty-" said Mrs. Rossitur.

Hugh exclaimed, and Fleda laughing took it out of her hand.

Why mother!" said Hugh,-"it is Fleda's."

"Fleda's!" exclaimed Mrs. Rossitur, snatching the Magazine again. "My dear child, I was not thinking in the least of what I was reading. Fleda's!"

She read it over anew, with swimming eyes this time, and then clasped Fleda in her arms and gave her, not words, but the better reward of kisses and tears. They remained so a long time, even till Hugh left them; and then Fleda released from her aunt's embrace still crouched by her side with one arm in her lap.

They both sat thoughtfully looking into the fire till it hać burnt itself out and nothing but a glowing bed of coals remained.

"That is an excellent young man!" said Mrs. Rossitur. " Who ?"

"Mr. Olmney. He sat with me some time after you had gone."

"So you said before," said Fleda, wondering at the troubled expression of her aunt's face.

"He made me wish," said Mrs. Rossitur hesitating, "that I could be something different from what I am-I believe I should be a great deal happier"

The last word was hardly spoken. Fleda rose to her knees and putting both arms about her aunt pressed face to face, with a clinging sympathy that told how very near her spirit was; while tears from the eyes of both fell without

measure.

"Dear aunt Lucy-dear aunt Lucy-I wish you would! -I am sure you would be a great deal happier-"

But the mixture of feelings was too much for Fleda; her head sank lower on her aunt's bosom and she wept aloud. "But I don't know anything about it!" said Mrs. Rossitur, as well as she could speak,-"I am as ignorant as a child!"

"Dear aunty! that is nothing-God will teach you if you ask him; he has promised. Oh ask him, aunt Lucy! I know you would be happier!-I know it is better-a million times!--to be a child of God than to have everything in the world.—If they only brought us that, I would be very glad of all our troubles !-indeed I would!”

“But I don't think I ever did anything right in my life!" said poor Mrs. Rossitur.

“Dear aunt Lucy!" said Fleda, straining her closer and with her very heart gushing out at these words,-" dear aunty-Christ came for just such sinners!-for just such, as you and I."

"You," said Mrs. Rossitur, but speech failed utterly, and with a muttered prayer that Fleda would help her, she sunk her head upon her shoulder and sobbed herself intc quietness, or into exhaustion. The glow of the firelight faded away till only a faint sparkle was left in the chimney.

There was not another word spoken, but when they rose up, with such kisses as gave and took unuttered affection, counsel and sympathy, they bade each other good-night.

Fleda went to her window, for the moon rode high and her childish habit had never been forgotten. But surely the face that looked out that night was as the face of an angel. In all the pouring moonbeams that filled the air, she could see nothing but the flood of God's goodness on a dark world. And her heart that night had nothing but an unbounded and unqualified thanksgiving for all the "gentle discipline" they had felt; for every sorrow and weariness and disappointment;-except besides the prayer, almost too deep to be put into words, that its due and hoped-for fruit might be brought forth unto perfection.

CHAPTER XXVII.

If I become not a cart as well as another man, a plague on my bringing up.

EV

SHAKSPEARE.

VERY day could not be as bright as the last, even by the help of pitch pine knots. They blazed indeed, many a time, but the blaze shone upon faces that it could not sometimes light up. Matters drew gradually within a smaller and smaller compass. Another five dollars came from uncle Orrin, and the hope of more; but these were carefully laid by to pay Philetus; and for all other wants of the household excepting those the farm supplied the family were dependent on mere driblets of sums. None came

from Mr. Rossitur. Hugh managed to collect a very little. That kept them from absolute distress; that, and Fleda's delicate instrumentality. Regular dinners were given up, fresh meat being now unheard-of, unless when a kind neighbour made them a present; and appetite would have lagged sadly but for Fleda's untiring care. She thought no time nor pains ill-bestowed which could prevent her aunt and Hugh from feeling the want of old comforts; and her nicest skill was displayed in varying the combinations of their very few and simple stores. The diversity and deliciousness of her bread-stuffs, Barby said, was "beyond everything!" and a cup of rich coffee was found to cover all deficiencies of removes and entremêts; and this was always served, Barby said further, as if the President of the United States was expected. Fleda never permitted the least slackness in the manner of doing this or anything else that she could control.