I fell down beside o' th' poor crushed wench an' sobbed wi' her. I couldna comfort her, fur wheer wur there any comfort fur us? Theer wur none left-theer wur no hope We wur shamed an' broke down-our lives wur lost. Th past wur nowt-th' future wur worse. Oh, my poor lass, how hard she tried to pray--fur me, Mester-yes, fur me, as she lay theer wi' her arms round her dead babby's grave, an' her cheek on th' grass as grew o'er his breast. "Lord God-a'-moighty!" she says, "help us-dunnot gi' us up— dunnot, dunnot! We canna do 'thowt thee now, if th' time ever wur when we could. Th' little chap mun be wi' Thee— I moind th' bit o' comfort about getherin' th' lambs i' His bosom. An', Lord, if tha could spare him a minnit, send him down to us wi' a bit o' leet. O Feyther! help th' poor lad here--help him. Let th' weight fa' on me, not on him. Just help th' poor lad to bear it. If ever I did owt as wur worthy i' Thy sight, let that be my reward. Dear Lorda'-moighty, I'd be willin' to gi' up a bit o' my own heavenly glory fur th' dear lad's sake."

Well, Mester, she lay theer on th' grass prayin' an' cryin', wild but gentle, fur nigh haaf an hour, an' then it seemed 'at she got quiet loike, an' she got up. Happen th' Lord had hearkened an' sent th' child-happen He hadfur when she getten up her face looked to me aw white an' shinin' i' th' clear moonlight.

"Sit down by me, dear lad," she said, "an' hold my hand a minnit." I set down an' took hold of her hand, as she bid me.

"Tim," she said, “this wur why th' little chap deed. Dostna tha see now 'at th' Lord knew best?"

Yes, lass," I answers humble, an' lays my face on her hand, breakin' down again.

"Hush, dear lad," she whispers, "we hannot time fur that. I want to talk to thee. Wilta listen?"

'Yes, wife," I says, an' I heerd her sob when I said it, but she catches hersen up again.

"I want thee to mak' me a promise," said she. “I want thee to promise never to forget what peace we ha' had. I want thee to remember it allers, an' to moind him 'at's dead an' let his little hand howd thee back fro' sin an' hard

thowts. I'll pray fur thee neet an' day, Tim, an' tha shalt pray ur me, an' happen theer'll come a leet. But ef theer dunnot, dear lad,—an' I dunnot see how theer could,-if theer dunnot, an' we never see each other agen, I want thee to mak' me a promise that if tha sees th' little chap first tha'lt moind him o' me, and watch out wi' him nigh th' gate, an' I'll promise thee that if I see him first, I'll moind him o' thee an' watch out true an' constant."

I promised her, Mester, as yo' can guess, an' we kneeled down an' kissed th' grass, an' she took a bit o' th' sod to put i' her bosom. An' then we stood up an' looked at each other, an' at last she put her dear face on my breast, an' kissed me, as she had done every neet sin' we were mon an' wife.

"Good-by, dear lad," she whispers, her voice aw broken. "Doan't come back to th' house till I'm gone; good-by, dear, dear lad, an' God bless thee!" An' she slipped out o' my arms an' wur gone in a moment, awmost before I could cry out.

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Theer isna much more to tell, Mester-th' eend's comin, now. I lived alone here, an' worked, an' moinded my own business, an' answered no questions fur nigh about a year, hearin' nowt, an' seein' nowt, an' hopin' nowt, till one toime when th' daisies were blowin' on th' little grave here, theer come to me a letter fro' Manchester fro' one o' th' medical chaps i' th' hospital. It wur a short letter wi' prent on it, an' th' minnit I seed it I knowed summat wur up, an' I opened it tremblin'. Mester, theer wur a woman lyin' i' one o' th' wards dyin' o' some long-named heart disease, an' she'd prayed 'em to send fur me, an' one o' th' young soft-hearted ones had writ me a line to let me know.

I started awmost afore I'd finished readin' th' letter, an' when I getten to th' place I fun just what I knowed I should. I fun her-my wife-th' blessed lass, an' if I'd been an hour later I wouldna ha' seen her alive, fur she were nigh past knowin' me then.

But I knelt down by th' bedside an' I plead wi' her as she lay theer, until I browt her back to th' world again fur one moment. Her eyes flew wide open aw at onct, an' she seed me an' smiled, aw her dear face quiverin' i' death.

"Dear lad," she whispered, “th' path wasna so long, after aw. Th' Lord knew-he trod it hissen onct, yo' know. I knowed tha'd come-I prayed so. I've reached th' very eend now, Tim, an' I shall see th' little lad first. But I wunnot forget my promise-no. I'll look out-fur theefur thee-at th' gate."

An' her eyes shut slow an' quiet, an' I knowed she wur dead.

Theer, Mester Doncaster, theer it aw is, fur theer she lies under th' daisies cloost by her child, fur I browt her here an' buried her. Th fellow as come betwixt us had tortured her fur awhile an' then left her again. It wur heart disease as killed her th' medical chaps said, but I knowed betterit wur heart-break. That's aw. Sometime I think o'er it till I canna stand it any longer, an' I'm fain to come here an' lay my hand on th' grass-an' sometime I ha' queer dreams about her. I had one last neet. I thowt 'at she comn to me aw at onct just as she used to look, on'y wi' her white face shinin' loike a star, an' she says, "Tim, th' path isna so long, after aw-tha's come nigh to th' eend, an' me an' th' little chap is waitin'."

That's why I comn here to-neet, Mester; an' I believe that's why I talked so free to thee. If I'm near th' eend I'd loike some one to know. I ha' meant no hurt when I seemed grum an' surly. It wurna ill-will, but a heavy heart.

A WO-BEGONE LOVER.

I am down in the mouth, I am out at the pockets!
Ah, me! I've no pockets at all;

And all I have left is a braid and a locket,

That's all.

It was rather solemn; quite touching, alas!
As she got on a stool to be higher

I acted, no doubt, the entire jack-ass,―

Yes, entire!

Arms and lips came together, and staid, as I reckon,
With as much as you please of a linger,

Till a finger was seen at the window to beckon-
A finger!

We'd forgotten the shutters!-the world was forgot,
Till we saw that sign from her father,

Which was rather a poser, just then, was it not?

'Twas, rather!

He knew I was ruined-all gone to smash!

And he was a man of that stamp,
Would call you a scamp, if you hadn't the cash,-
Ay, a scamp!

His bonds and investments,--not in such brains
As a poet makes up into verses;

His remarks, upon never so beautiful strains,

Were curses!

I called the next day, but the stool was removed,
And the delicate foot, with a twirl,
Walked off somewhere with the girl that I loved-
The girl.

MASTER JOHNNY'S NEXT-DOOR NEIGHBOR.

BRET HARTE.

It was Spring the first time that I saw her, for her papa and mamma moved in

Next door, just as skating was over, and marbles about to begin,

For the fence in our back-yard was broken, and I saw, as I peeped through the slat,

There were "Johnny-jump-ups" all around her, and I knew it was Spring just by that.

I never knew whether she saw me, for she didn't say noth ing to me,

But "Ma! here's a slat in the fence broke, and the boy tha is next door can see.”

But the next day I climbed on our wood-shed, as you know, Mamma says I've a right,

And she calls out, "Well, peekin' is manners!" and I answered her, "Sass is perlite!"

But I wasn't a bit mad; no, Papa, and to prove it, the very

next day

When she ran past our fence in the morning I happened to get in her way,

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For you know I am "chunked" and clumsy, as she says are all boys of my size,

And she nearly upset me, she did, Pa, and laughed till tears came in her eyes.

And then we were friends from that moment, for I knew that she told Kitty Sage

And she wasn't a girl that would flatter-that she thought I was tall for my age.

And I gave her four apples that evening, and took her to ride on my sled,

And-What am I telling you this for? Why, Papa, my neighbor is dead!

You don't hear one half I am saying-I really do think it's too bad!

Why, you might have seen crape on her door-knob, and

noticed to-day I've been sad.

And they've got her a coffin of rosewood, and they say they have dressed her in white,

And I've never once looked through the fence, Pa, since she died at eleven last night.

And Ma says it's decent and proper, as I was her neighbor and friend,

That I should go there to the funeral, and she thinks that

you ought to attend;

But I am so clumsy and awkward, I know I shall be in the way,

And suppose they should speak to me, Papa, I wouldn't know just what to say.

So I think I will get up quite early, I know I sleep late, but I know

I'll be sure to wake up if our Bridget pulls the string that I'll tie to my toe,

And I'll crawl through the fence and I'll gather the "Johnny-jump-ups" as they grew

Round her feet the first day that I saw her, and, Papa, I'll give them to you.

For you're a big man, and you know, Pa, can come and go just where you choose,

And you'll take the flowers in to her, and surely they'll never refuse;

But, Papa, don't say they're from Johnny. They won't un

derstand, don't you see.

But just lay them down on her bosom, and, Papa, she'll know they're from me.