The softened stationer deposits another half-crown on the table. Nothing less than a repetition of that infallible remedy will relieve his feelings. "Wot I wos thinkin on, Mr. Sangsby," proceeds Jo, "wos, as you wos able to write wery large, p'raps?" "Yes, Jo, please God," returns the stationer. "Uncommon, precious large, p'raps?" says Jo, with eagerness. Jo laughs with pleasure. "Wot I wos thinkin on then, Mr. Sangsby, wos, that wen I wos moved on as fur as ever I could go, and couldn't be moved no furder, whether you might be so good, p'raps, as to write out, wery large, so that any one could see it anywheres, as that I was wery truly hearty sorry that I done it, and that I never went fur to do it; and that though I didn't know nothink at all, I knowd as Mr. Woodcot once cried over it, and was allus grieved over it, and that I hoped as he'd be able to forgive me in his mind. If the writin could be made to say it. wery large, he might." "I shall say it, Jo; very large." Jo laughs again. "Thankee, Mr. Sangsby. It's wery kind of you, sir, and it makes me more cumfbler nor I wos afore." The meek little stationer, with a broken and unfinished cough, slips down his fourth half-crown, he has never been so close to a case requiring so many, and is fain to depart. And Jo and he, upon this little earth, shall meet no more. No more. (Another scene.-Enter Mr. Woodcourt.) "Well, Jo, what is the matter? Don't be frightened." "I thought," says Jo, who has started, and is looking round, "I thought I was in Tom-All-alone's agin. An't there nobody here but you, Mr. Woodcot?" "Nobody." "And I an't took back to Tom-All-alone's, am I, sir?" Jo closes his eyes, muttering, "I am wery thankful.” After watching him closely a little while, Allan puts his mouth very near his ear, and says to him in a low, distinct voice: "Jo, did you ever know a prayer?' "Never knowd nothink, sir." "Not so much as one short prayer?" "No, sir. Nothing at all. Mr. Chadbands he wos a prayin wunst at Mr. Sangsby's, and I heerd him, but he sounded as if he wos a speakin to hisself, and not to me. He prayed a lot, but I couldn't make out nothink on it. Different times there wos other genlmen come down Tomall-Alone's a prayin, but they all mostly sed as the t'other wuns prayed wrong, and all mostly sounded to be talkin to theirselves, or a passin blame on the t'others, and not a talkin to us. We never knowd nothink. I never knowd what it wos all about." It takes him a long time to say this; and few but an experienced and attentive listener could hear, or, hearing, understand him. After a short relapse into sleep or stupor, he makes, of a sudden, a strong effort to get out of bed. "Stay, Jo, stay! What now?" "It's time for me to go to that there berryin ground, sir," he returns, with a wild look. "Lie down, and tell me. What burying ground, Jo?" "Where they laid him as wos wery good to me; wery good to me indeed, he wos. It's time for me to go down to that there berryin ground, sir, and ask to be put along with him. I wants to go there and be berried. He used fur to say to me, 'I am as poor as you to-day, Jo,' he ses. I wants to tell him that I am as poor as him now, and have come there to be laid along with him." "By-and-by, Jo; by-and-by." "Ah! P'raps they wouldn't do it if I was to go myself. But will you promise to have me took there, sir, and laid along with him?" "I will, indeed." "Thankee, sir! Thankee, sir! They'll have to get the key of the gate afore they can take me in, for it's allus locked. And there's a step there, as I used fur to clean with my broom.-It's turned wery dark, sir. Is there any light a comin?" "It is coming fast, Jo." Fast. The cart is shaken all to pieces, and the rugged road is very near its end. "Jo, my poor fellow!" "I hear, you sir, in the dark, but I'm a gropin-a gropin-let me catch hold of your hand." "Jo, can you say what I say?" "I'll say anything as you say, sir, for I knows it's good." "OUR FATHER." "Our Father!-yes, that's wery good, sir." "WHICH ART IN HEAVEN." UNITED IN DEATH. "Art in Heaven!"-Is the light a comin', sir?" 137 Dead, Right Dead, men and women, And dying thus around The light has come upon the benighted way. Dead. Dead, your Majesty. Dead, my Lords and Gentlemen. Reverends and Wrong Reverends of every order. born with heavenly compassion in your hearts. us every day. THE FIRST SNOW-FALL. T JAMES R. LOWELL. HE snow had begun in the gloaming, | Up spoke our own little Mabel, And busily all the night Had been heaping field and highway Every pine and fir and hemlock Wore ermine too dear for an earl, From sheds new-roofed with Carrara Came Chanticleer's muffled crow, The stiff rails were softened to swan's down, I stood and watched by the window The noiseless work of the sky, I thought of a mound in sweet Auburn Saying, "Father, who makes it snow?" And I told of the good All-father Who cares for us here below. Again I looked at the snow-fall, And thought of the leaden sky When that mound was heaped so high. I remembered the gradual patience That fell from that cloud like snow, The scar of our deep-plunged woe. Alone can make it fall!" Then, with eyes that saw not, I kissed her; T UNITED IN DEATH. HERE was no fierceness in the eyes of those men now, as they sat face to face on the bank of the stream; the strife and the anger had all gone now, and they sat still,-dying men, who but a few hours before had been deadly foes, sat still and looked at each |