father swallowed his last mouthful, and pushed the empty plate back upon the table.

Then William Eustace turned his legs to the fire, stretching himself before it, taking all the heat away from his wife and son, believing he was only acting his proper part. He bade Tom go to bed, and take a glass of water with him for fear he might be thirsty. Boys, he said, grew fastest when they were asleep. Then he took his big pipe from the mantelpiece, stuffed it with the costly weed, lit it, and let his musings overcome him. Mary gave Tom a crust his father had left, rekindled a candle for him, and accompanied him to the chamber door, saying he would be a man himself one day, and then he would be able to have meat and onions, too, for his supper. But when the candle was out, and Tom's head was on the pillow, a great crowd of thoughts, of various hues and shapes, thronged around him. If his father was right in eating and drinking the best, taking the nicest place by the hearth, and the best chair in the kitchen, without even asking his mother or himself to partake of a single shred, the Scripture text which he had read on Sunday must have a different meaning from what he had concluded. "If ye, then, being evil, know how to give good gifts unto your children, how much more shall your Father which is in heaven give good things to them that ask Him?" But, perhaps, fried meat was not a good gift for a poor boy like him; and yet the smell was so very delicious. But he could ask his Father in heaven for good things, which he would at once do. He should be a man himself one day ; and then his mother had told him he would know better and fare better. It was cowardly, he knew, to complain; but why did not his father offer him just a little bit, when he was longing so anxiously to taste it, and his stomach was so empty? It was always so; fish or fowl or whatever it might be, his father had all, and he and his mother had none. He wondered if other fathers did it in other homes. And then he recollected what Jem Jefferies had told him by the gate of the wood a day or two ago that his father always cut off a corner of his pasty for him, gave all the children meat, before he tasted any himself, and shared what was left with Peggy his wife; but to be a boy in his father's house was a different thing, and it would be a long time before he should be a man, half-starved as he really was. No; he could not stand it, and but for his

mother he would rush away then in the darkness. She was good to him, so good; and he knew not what to do. And poor Tom turned his wet face to the pillow, and cried himself to sleep.

That night William Eustace had a dream. He was wandering over rugged paths, and up steep hills, where sharp-toothed briers stretched across his way, and flinty rocks impeded his course. Still he dragged himself along through slippery places, where his feet were held fast in the mud, or where the banks were so difficult to surmount that he fell back for the twentieth time. The perspiration ran over him in streams, and the pangs of hunger fearfully assailed him. Night was settling down upon the earth, and he had tasted no food since the morning. Here fallen trees lay across the road, and there deep ruts threatened to stop him entirely, over which he clambered with the greatest difficulty, often scratching his hands and tearing his clothes. Still his hunger increased as the way became more intricate, and its pangs were greater than ever he had felt before. Suddenly he found himself under a dark archway, leading he knew not whither. He felt his way along, toiled up some steep steps, and found himself standing before a massive door. Lifting his hand in search of the knocker, he happened to touch a spring, and the huge door opened immediately. He entered, and a sumptuous feast was spread upon a large table, choicest viands of several kinds, and around it, in the blaze of richly-coloured lamps, sat a hundred hungry people, partaking heartily of the provision. He approached the well-spread board, and sat with them at their meal. Beckoning to the serving man, a plate was handed to him, containing nothing but a picked bone and a hard crust of bread, and a voice arose from the hundred eaters, "With what measure ye mete, it shall be measured to you again.' He shivered with affright as they all started to their feet, and shouted in his ears so that the huge ceiling of the hall shook, "This is what you do to your son Tom, and your industrious, thrifty wife." He ate the crust, and again handed the plate to the serving-man. This time he had nothing but the shells of nuts and an orange peel, with the same withering utterances in his ears: "This is how you serve your own household." The smell of the rich delicacies was in his nostrils, and hunger seized him like an angry giant. If he stretched forth his

hand to take the smallest fragment, the miserable serving-man would strike his joints with a knotty stick, or thrust the hardened point against his breast. Screaming with pain, and bawling for food at the very top of his voice, he awoke with great trembling, startling both Mary and Tom.

The next day William Eustace was a different man. A thousand thoughts gathered around him at his work, perched upon the rake-handle, fluttered among the trees on the hedges, sailed through the air overhead, skimmed upon the waters, and buzzed forever in his ears. His dream, too, haunted him, and the gruff serving-man with the knotty stick. He would live an altered life; yes, he would live an altered life. He had been more selfish than he had ever conceived, and now he would fling it from him. Mary should fare better, and Tom should sit with him at supper; and he would not appropriate so much of the hearth to himself. The good things of life should be shared together, or his name was not William Eustace. God had spoken to him in a dream, and he would heed the admonition. Yes, he would do this and begin that very night.

After his day's work was finished he returned to his home, and found every thing in its usual order. Mary was again sewing, and Tom was sitting on a stool in the corner, looking anything but bright, with an illustrated magazine in his hand. The candle was lighting, and his warm slippers awaiting him in their place. He hung up his hat on the peg, washed his face and hands, and took his accustomed seat. Mary lifted his warm supper on to the table, and when the cover was removed, he saw that it contained some boiled tripe, whilst another vessel held some potatoes. Tom turned a side-glance upon him from the magazine, and Mary wondered why his knife and fork lay untouched beside the plate. But after a few minutes of deep silence, Mary stopped her sewing, and enquired, "Are you ill, William?"

Placing the cover again upon his supper to keep it warm, and leaning back in his chair, William Eustace replied :— "No, wife, thank God, I am not ill; indeed, I have never been better in health than I am at this moment. But my eyes have been opened, wife, by a dream I had last night, which I need not repeat to you now. Did you not hear me call out in my sleep, as if the house were falling, and did I not shake as if I had the ague? I have been selfish, wife, selfish, treating

you and Tom as if you were no better than aliens-eating and drinking the best, and keeping you on the coarsest food, although you were pining away before my eyes. But it shall be so no longer, or I am not William Eustace. Come, Mary, put your sewing down, and bring out your plate from the cupboard, and take Tom's out also. Rise up, poor boy, and come here by the side of thy father. We will share our meals together for the future, and thou shalt have a portion of that which thy father possesses. Rise, Tom, and pull thy chair to the table; the winter is past for thee, and the genial spring is returned, which will usher in, I believe, the summer fruits of happiness. Up, boy, up!"

And Tom rose from the stool with a merrier twinkle in his eye than had shot from it before for many a day, wondering what was the matter with his father, and if the great dream had driven him completely out of his mind. But he was quite convinced of his sanity in a few minutes, when a large piece of tripe, smoking hot, and some potatoes were heaped upon his plate. There were three large pieces, and so they had one each, with a cup of nice coffee. And, O, how pleasant it was! how delicious for Tom, who swallowed his tripe with a richer zest than a prince his costly dainties, often looking at his father, and vowing he was the very best in the world! And what a loveable smile played upon Mary's face, scattering some of its rays of sunshine on her husband's countenance, who was obliged every now and then to brush away the tears with the back of his hand! And when the meal was ended, and the supper things removed, William Eustace declared that it was the heartiest, happiest repast which he had ever partaken since he had been able to wield a scythe or uplift a flail.

Nor did this state of things collapse in a week or a month, but continued from year's end to year's end, enkindling a happiness in the bosoms of Mary and Tom to which they had so long been strangers, whilst William Eustace was the happiest of all. He declared that he could eat better, work better, and sleep better than when the power of self was over him, and he had cleared his plate like a glutton. Tom began to grow taller and stouter from that remarkable night, and his old love for his parent returned and increased. Kindness begets kindness all the world over. Try it, dear reader, and it shall

M

clothe you in more loveliness than the glitter of fine gold, or the pamper of self.

Tom is now a married man, with a frugal wife, and a child of his own. William Eustace has been unable to work for a long period, and he and Mary are now dependent on their son for subsistence. And this Tom provides cheerfully and well, still remembering that first evening when his father divided the hot tripe and potatoes amongst them, often reciting the circumstance to his little girl on his knee.

WALTER WHEAR AND HIS COW.

T was a rainy day-rain, rain, nothing but rain! The trees dripped, the spouts ran, the eaves of the houses poured down water, and the swollen river thundered among the oaks. Walter Whear sat in his farm-house by the smallest fire, for he could not work out of doors, the rain was so incessant. It came against the window in great splashes, hissing on the floor through the cracked panes ; and the thatch over his head was insufficient to keep it from spattering the room above. It was the hind's residence, and had been so for many years, in connection with the farm upon which he worked. Walter sighed as a large drop fell upon his face, and the next moment the door of hollow boards opened, creaking on its hinges, and his wife Martha entered. She was rather scantily clothed; her boots were much worn, and her cotton bonnet tied down with a handkerchief. Moreover, she was dripping with wet, which slowly trickled from her flowing hair and cap-strings, and the fringes of her shawl. Doffing a portion of these, she fell into a rickety chair on the opposite side of the fire-place, and sorrowfully addressed her husband.

"The cow is gone, Walter; gone! and I cannot find her anywhere. I have searched the wood, and the common, and the lane leading into the park, calling 'Brindle! Brindle!' but it is all in vain. We can have no milk to-night, and perhaps shall lose to-morrow's meal also; and this, you know, is losing all. I milked her in the morning quietly chewing her cud by the old apple tree; and she was so contented!