A trembling hand raised the faded black veil, and revealed the sweetest old face I ever saw.

"Never mind," said a quivering voice.

"'Tis only three o'clock now; you'll have to wait until the night train, which doesn't go up until 1.05.” "Very well, sir; I can wait."

"Wouldn't you like to go to some hotel?

mons will show you the way."

Sim

"No, thank you, sir. This will do as well. Besides, I haven't any money."

"Very well, Simmons will tell you when it's

time."

All the afternoon she sat there so quiet that I thought sometimes she must be asleep, but when I looked more closely, I could see every once in a while a great tear rolling down her check, which she would wipe away hastily with her cotton handkerchief.

The depot was crowded, and all was bustle and hurry until the 9:50 train going east came due; then every passenger left except the old lady. It is very rare, indeed, that any one takes the night express, and always after I have struck ten, the depot becomes silent and empty.

The ticket agent put on his great coat, and bidding Simmons keep his wits about him for once in his life, departed for home.

But he had no sooner gone than Simmons stretched himself out upon the table and began to snore vociferously.

Then it was I witnessed such a sight as I never had before, and never expect to again.

The fire had gone down-it was a cold night, and the wind howled dismally outside. The lamps

grew dim and flared, casting weird shadows upon the wall. By and by I heard a smothered sob from the corner, then another. I looked in that direction. She had risen from her seat, and oh! the look of agony on the poor pinched face.

"I can't believe it!" she sobbed, wringing her thin, white hands. "Oh! I can't believe it! My! babies! my babies! how often have I held them in my arms and kissed them; and how often they used to say back to me, 'I love you, mamma,' and now, O God! they've turned against me. Where am I going? To the poor-house! No! no! no! I cannot! I will not! Oh, the disgrace!"

And sinking upon her knees, she sobbed out in

prayer:

“O God! spare me this and take me home! O God, spare me this disgrace; spare me!"

The wind rose higher and swept through the crevices, icy cold. How it moaned and seemed to sob like something human that is hurt. I began to shake, but the kneeling figure never stirred. The thin shawl had dropped from her shoulders unheeded. Simmons turned over and drew his heavy blanket more closely about him.

Oh, how cold! Only one lamp remained, burning dimly; the other two had gone out for want of oil. I could hardly see, it was so dark.

At last she became quieter and ceased to moan. Then I grew drowsy, and kind of lost the run of things after I had struck twelve, when some one entered the depot with a bright light. I started up. It was the brightest light I ever saw, and seemed to fill the room full of glory. I could see 'twas a man. He walked to the kneeling figure and touched her

upon the shoulder.

She started up and turned her

face wildly around. I heard him say:

"Tis train time, ma'am.

Come!"

A look of joy came over her face.
"I'm ready," she whispered.

"Then give me your pass, ma'am.”

She reached him a worn old book, which he took and from it read aloud:

"Come unto me all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest."

66

That's the pass over our road, ma'am.

ready?"

Are you

The whistle

The light died away, and darkness fell in its place. My hand touched the stroke of one. Simmons awoke with a start and snatched his lantern. sounded down brakes; the train was due. the corner and shook the old woman.

“Wake up, marm, 'tis train time.”

He ran to

But she never heeded. He gave one look at the white set face, and, dropping his lantern, fled.

The up-train halted, the conductor shouted "All aboard," but no one made a move that way.

The next morning, when the ticket agent came, he found her frozen to death. They whispered among themselves, and the coroner made out the verdict apoplexy," and it was in some way hushed up.

They laid her out in the depot, and advertised for her friends, but no one came. So after the second day, they buried her.

with a

The last look on the sweet old face, lit up smile so unearthly, I keep with me yet; and when I think of the occurance of that night, I know she went out on the other train, that never stopped at the poorhouse.

OVER THE HILL FROM THE POOR-HOUSE.

WILL CARLETON.

I, who was always counted, they say,

Rather a bad stick any way,

Splintered all over with dodges and tricks,
Known as "the worst of the Deacon's six;"

I, the truant, saucy and bold,

The one black sheep in my father's fold,
"Once on a time," as the stories say,
Went over the hill on a winter's day—
Over the hill to the poor-house.

Tom could save what twenty could earn;
But givin' was somethin' he never would learn;
Isaac could half o' the Scriptur's speak—

Committed a hundred verses a week;

Never forgot, an' never slipped;

But "Honor thy father and mother " he skipped;

So over the hill to the poor-house!

As for Susan, her heart was kind
An' good-what there was of it, mind;
Nothin' too big, an' nothin' too nice,
Nothin' she wouldn't sacrifice

For one she loved; an' that 'ere one

Was herself, when all was said an' done;
An' Charley an' Becca meant well, no doubt,
But any one could pull them about;

An' all o' our folks ranked well, you sce,
Save one poor fellow, and that was me;
An' when, one dark an' rainy night,
A neighbor's horse went out o' sight,
They hitched on me, as the guilty chap
That carried one end o' the halter-strap.

An' I think, myself, that view of the case
Wasn't altogether out o' place;

My mother denied it, as mothers do,
But I am inclined to believe 'twas true.

Though for me one thing might be said-
That I, as well as the horse, was led;
And the worst of whisky spurred me on,

Or else the deed would have never been done.
But the keenest grief I ever felt

Was when my mother beside me knelt,
An' cried, an' prayed, 'till I melted down,
As I wouldn't for half the horses in town.
I kissed her fondly, then an' there,

An' swore henceforth to be honest and square.

66

I served my sentence—a bitter pill
Some fellows should take who never will;
And then I decided to go out West,"
Concludin' 'twould suit my health the best;
Where, how, I prospered, I never could tell,
But fortune seemed to like me well;
An' somehow every vein I struck
Was always bubbling over with luck.

An', better than that, I was steady an' true,
An' put my good resolutions through.

Then, I wrote to a trusty old neighbor, an' said,
"You tell 'em, old fellow, that I am dead,
An' died a Christian; 'twill please 'em more,
Than if I had lived the same as before."

But when this neighbor he wrote to me,
"Your mother's in the poor-house," says he.
I had a resurrection straightway,
An' started for her that very day.