than gold, and he felt sure that Providence would direct them. "Come, Jessie," said he, "how shall it be accomplished? how shall we get a dinner to-morrow?"

"O," replied Jessie, "I do not think we shall have so very much trouble about that; for the two ducks and goose which you intended killing last Christmas Eve are still alive in the feeding-house awaiting your return. Mother said she would not kill them until you came back; and if you never returned they would never have been killed. Shall Isaac and I go and bring them, father?"

The poultry was soon produced, and fat and full the fowls looked; though, perhaps, they might have been a little tougher than they were a year ago. To kill the three at once was out of the question, as they must husband the little they possessed, and labour courageously, energetically, and unitedly to procure subsistence, and if possible regain what they had lost. So the goose was killed, and the two ducks were kept for laying eggs in the season. Mary went to market with their last half-crown, and a few extras were provided for their table; and though they all wanted to know the history of Michael Mander's whereabouts, he persisted in reserving it until after the dinner on Christmas Day. And when the roast goose was smoking on the platter, and the plain, but substantial, pudding on the board, no happier or more grateful party ever sat down to a Christmas feast. When the plates and dishes were cleared away, and the blackberry wine of Mary's own making brought forth from the cupboard, Michael Mander explained the mystery of his absence as follows:

"You know how last Christmas Eve I took the horse and wain, and drove in the direction of the rectory, intending to purchase and bring home reed, as the roof of the house required repairing. And I see that it is much worse now than it was then, the holes being stopped up with turf and stones, and even bushes of furze. But never mind, Jessie, we will do it all by and bye, and then the proud people will no longer point at our house as an old tumble-down. I had but just passed The Moorland Rest,' reached the corner of the common, and was talking pleasantly to Dray, when five armed men rushed out of the bushes upon me; and before I had time scarcely to utter a word or ask them why they were so rude, they tied my hands behind my back, gagged me, threw

my whip in the wain, turned the horse's head right about, blindfolded me, and dragged me off between them I knew not. whither. But this I perfectly understood, Jessie-that I was in the hands of the press-gang. More shame for such a 'gang' in a Christian country! I thought of you all, and what a melancholy Christmas Eve it would be-how you would be wondering and waiting and weeping for my return; and I sighed bitterly with a great sorrow.

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'By the sounds which I next heard I knew I was on board a ship, that the anchor was heaved, and the vessel standing out of the harbour. Resistance would have been in vain; and so I calmly submitted to my fate. After several hours the bandage was removed from my eyes, when I could see the water all around me, and the land-my own land—in the distance like a mere speck. I questioned one of the sailors, and he told me that the brig was bound for France. We landed and I was forced to be a soldier; but I would much rather have been a rag-man. War commenced, and I was among the fighters. What I saw and felt is more than I can tell you. A bullet grazed my shoulder, disabling me for the service, so that shortly after I got my discharge.

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Kindly give me another glass of your blackberry wine, wife. I declare if it is not prime, and better than half the liquor-poison which is sold in the stained-glass spirit palaces. Seeking a ship in the harbour, I engaged to work my passage in her to England; for, having left the hospital before it was thought prudent by the surgeon, and against the specified rules of the squadron, I was entirely debarred of all pay, and was as free from money resources as a duck's back is from water. I landed without a penny; and though I had never asked alms in my life, I was obliged to beg my way to you. I scarcely got anything of the great farmers, or the rich people, but those who dwelt in cottages and small tenements were very generous to me; and I think you will find it generally true that the poor are kind to the poor. On the outskirts of a village, about forty miles from Dover, I saw a young man by the wayside leaning over a gate looking across the pastures. Without much ceremony I went up to him; and lo, it was Isaac ! I had a penny in my pocket, which a poor old widow had given me from her scanty store, like the woman in the Gospel, with which I bought a postage-stamp

in the next town, and posted a letter to you. I have the dear old woman's address, and hope to repay her with interest for her penny some day. After this we jogged on together, Isaac and I, and were not very long in reaching our dear old home. Yes! thank God we are all here once more, and have had a delicious Christmas dinner. Our trials do not endure for

ever, and HE giveth stillness after the storm. If my short history shall lead the poor man to see that conscription is a cheat, and the glory of the soldier's trade a complete sham, I shall not have suffered in vain. Come, Jessie; come, wife; it is Christmas time, and we are all together again around our own table, after a painful separation, feeling our hearts full of loving gratitude to Him. I cannot describe my own feelings; for my happiness in being with you once more is inexpressible. Now let us make the rafters ring with one of the dear old carols which charmed me when, in my boy-vest, I listened to my mother's Christmas tales."

The reader will be interested to hear that the wordly circumstances of Michael Mander very quickly began to improve. His neighbours, hearing his history, lent him a helping hand; and even the rector, who ought, perhaps, to have done it before, sent him a load of reed from the estate. The house was thatched, the ground was tilled once more; the crops were excellent, and soon he was again the owner of a horse to put into his wain. He called it Dray, after his former one; and it was quite worthy of the name. Mary Mander soon regained her usual cheerfulness, which was manifest in the song she sang at the needle or the butter-tub, or when awaiting her husband from the plough. Jessie, too, was soon in the possession of all her natural brightness; and the rector frequently came over to spend the evening at their house. Could we enter the snug little back parlour, we should see him there at this Christmas tide, and the subject of their conversation over some of Mary's best home-brewed would be, the press-gang and the empty wain.

Nor was the dear cld widow by the wayside-who gave Michael Mander a penny out of her little store, which she could so very ill afford-forgotten, as duly as Christmas Eve came round; for her Christmas-box was as regular as the old church chimes.

M

WILLIAM EUSTACE, AND HIS SON TOM.

ARY Eustace and her only son Tom were sitting down by a small fire waiting for his father. He was not a tippler, and so they knew he would not come from the public-house, which is a comfort at all times. It was cold and dark, and the evenings were getting chilly. Tom was now about ten years of age, a strong, willing-hearted lad, with an appetite as keen as a pedestrian's, and had just commenced his life-struggle as herd-boy with farmer Robins. Nothing but kindness was wanting, on the part especially of his father, to make him, to all appearance, a youth of whom any English parents might well be proud. But William Eustace was selfish, and somewhat sullen to his rather sensitive son, which told upon the boy's spirit, and in no small measure affected his outer life. This is sure to be the case at all times. Nothing was adverse, however, on his mother's part, who made more sacrifices for him than we need now enumerate, often giving him her own little share of meat from the dish, and eating dry bread that his might be buttered. But his father did nothing of this, nor seemed to think anything about it, whether he had bread and treacle or no bread at all. The best Mary could get was always put aside for her husband, whilst she and her son fed upon the homeliest fare.

For

To-night Tom was literally hungry, of which there was no mistake; for the cattle had strayed from the field, turning here and there, and he had a long chase after them. more than three hours they kept him in suspense, and almost in a run, and then he contrived to bring them safely back. His good mother had prepared the smallest supper for him; a few sops in a dish of skimmed milk, well watered. The bread which she gave him was the outside of a cottage-loaf, whilst she reserved the best portion for her selfish husband. She herself had fared much in the same way as her boy, nothing better or worse. But Mary Eustace never complained; she knew it was better to bear it all patiently, that life's weariness would soon be over, or that He who turned the water into wine at the marriage feast of Cana of Galilee, would change her husband's heart, and give him to see the selfishness which was now encrusting him with ice. Brave little wife! of whom

there are thousands in England who bear the yoke thus humbly, and whose tears are only known to the God of love.

And then they heard his heavy tread in the garden. Mary replenished the fire, snuffed the candle, and placed his slippers by the hearth. His cup and saucer were on the table, his knife and fork on the plate, with the remnant of the loaf beside it, the salt-cellar, and the milk-jug. The door was opened, and William Eustace entered, and seated himself at the end of the table; for this was his accustomed place. A fine robustlooking man, with a frank expression of countenance, which at once commanded respect. He asked how they were, and spoke very kindly; for he was not wanting in affection, and knew not, perhaps, that the demon of selfishness was so fast filling his life. He took it as a matter of right that he should have a greater share of the meat and eggs, butter and cheese, and all the good things that found their way into his dwelling; for did he not labour to procure them, and were they not all due to his daily exertion? His wife and boy were but his dependents, and he was the lord of his household. They dare not think but that it was perfectly Christian, and nobody must question his authority. Poor self-led man! he had quite outlived the thought of its inconsistency.

In a few minutes Mary placed his plate of fried meat and onions upon the table, which had been long simmering on the hob. A larger plate was over it as a cover; and when this was removed, what a savoury smell filled the room! Mary took her sewing, and sat near the candle, chatting with her husband on the weather, and the state of affairs generally. But Tom, poor Tom! who had only a few sops for his supper, and a little skimmed milk in a basin, how his mouth watered again as the little whiffs of steam from the well-filled plate were wafted to him, and the odour of the onions affected his sense! A great longing savagely seized him, nearly twitching him to the earth. He shifted on his seat, gave the cricket a little kick with his foot, in hopes his father might notice him, turned his face from the fire, and peeped along the table to see how much was still left on his father's plate. But no! William Eustace ate on, dipping his bread in the gravy, and forking the meat and onions into his mouth, as utterly regardless of the boy as if he had been a stone. Tom could not help crying a little bit; and he wiped away his tears as his selfish