The figure, on hearing this, was silent. The Justice, in his dream, began to hope that these unwelcome visitors would retire; but he was disappointed, for presently the serious voice began again.

"Into your house," it said, "by night or day, I shall freely and constantly come; and whomsoever I choose I shall always bring with me. I came here to-night to know from you the history of this woman."

"You may tell it yourself, if it is to be told to-night," said the Justice hardily. "I dare say you know it as well as I do."

"I will," was the answer.

"And you may tell her first to move aside," continued the Justice, in his dream, "for she kneels between me and the light and warmth."

"She does," replied the figure, "and so from henceforth she will."

Never before had he heard a voice so steady and stern; but he did not fear it so much as the silence which followed.

"Whoever you may be," he said at length, "speak out and tell me your errand."

"This woman," the voice began, 66 was born into the world on the same day that you were. Sixty-three years of prosperity, comfort, ease, and abundance, find you hale and hearty at the end of them. Sixty-three years of pining poverty, care, sickness, and toil, have made her a broken-down woman, bent with the infirmities of an early old age. She has lived within sight of your doorsshe has seen your abundance-and you have seen her poverty; have you sent her food from your overloaded table, or fuel from your woods? or have you repaired the brokendown hovel in which she dwells ?"

The Justice was silent for awhile; then he answered, in a low voice, "I have paid her her wages."

"She has laboured all her life on your lands, and you have paid her her wages? Were those wages sufficient to supply her moderate wants? Did she never complain :"

"Not very often," said the Justice, in his dream; "the last time was more than three years ago."

"And what did she say then?"

"She said she lived very hard, and her wages could scarcely keep soul and body together."

"And your answer ? "

"My answer was, that if I raised one, I must raise all; and my wages were the same as my neighbours'."

"Go on."

"No," said the Justice, in his dream; "I could not humble myself to a beggar: I kept my knowledge to myself."

By this time, as it seemed to Justice Wilvermore, the last glow of his wood fire had died away, and the figure of the old woman had disappeared in the gloom. He, however, continued to dream on: he thought the figure by his side drew nearer still; and, through the darkness these words fell upon his ears in a voice indescribably stern, distinct, and cold :

"Into these doors," it said, "which you have closed against the poor, this woman from henceforth shall always come.

How

ever bright may be your fire, this woman shall stand between you and its light and warmth. The remembrance of her hunger shall make your richest meals unpalatable. In your dreams alone you shall make reparation; and waking you shall never forget." "What is your name?" cried the Justice. "Tell me by what right you sentence

me thus ?"

"It is well that you should know my name," replied the figure, "since you and I in future must dwell together: I am known among mankind as Remorse." Upon hearing this, the Justice cried out, and woke in affright. The dying embers still cast a ruddy glow over the walls and ceiling: he glanced around-all was quiet, and he was indeed alone. "I have had a fearful dream," he said, "a nightmare terror; but I will take warning by it. Remorse shall never dwell with me, for I will make full reparation: I will be justI will be charitable-I will make amends for all."

THIS WAS THE FIRST DREAM.

The cottage stood near the edge of a long, frozen sheet of water. The piercing wind shook its frail casements, and drove snow and sleet through the chinks of its ill-fitting door. A candle had been burning, but it had died out in the socket; the canty fire had gone out also, and the Fate was getting cold.

An old woman sat close to the embers pon her only chair. It was the dead of ight. Through the clear, cold sky, a Moonbeam fell along her floor; she had no cartain to keep it out. She trembled with bed; she rocked herself slowly backward eoid; yet she did not go to her comfortless and forward, and thought and thought. Something lying on her lap; it was a book. Her candle, when it went out, left

was

her still poring over its pages. She folded her hands upon it, and sat like one lost in a waking dream, so deep that neither hunger nor cold could disturb it.

Let us draw near and consider her more attentively. Her features are sharp and thin; two or three tears have dropped down her hollow cheeks; a narrow drift of pure white snow lies along the floor, and reaches nearly to her chair; you may see the moonlight glittering down the chink in the door, through which it drifted! O! east wind; O! white snow, and blue, cold moonlight! What different things you are to us and to her! "Let us draw near the fire," we say, "and close the curtains, that we may enjoy this cheerful season. Nothing is pleasanter than this brisk, cold weather; it gives us an appetite, and makes exercise delightful!"

What does she say? Nothing. What does she think about? Her empty cupboard? No: she is familiar with want and hunger; she seldom has more bread than will last to the end of each day. What then-does she think of the cold? No she feels it and trembles; she has felt it often and long.

:

Does she think what a sad thing it is to live all one's life in the want of all comforts and luxuries? No. Her thoughts are not very distinct, but she does not consciously think of any of these things. She folds her hands over the book; she gradually falls away into a faint sleep, and begins to dream.

What a strange, delightful dream! She thinks that the sun begins to shine; it shines upon the pages of her Bible; it shines into her cottage, and it is all light and warm. She turns her head towards her casement, and what a wonderful sight! The trees are covered with leaves, and the snow has all melted away! Yet in her dream she knows it is winter, and she takes up her Bible, kneels down, and begins to pray. She remembers that country where there is no winter, no cold, no hunger; but her longing is not so much to escape from this sorrowful world, as to go to that beloved Redeemer who opened the golden gates of the better country for her.

She dreams that in her prayer she still repeats, "Oh! come Lord Jesus, come quickly!" and that far, far away, she hears a sound like distant footsteps, and they draw gradually near her door.

Yes! they draw near and yet more near. A joy that is indescribable, and never let

before, steals into her heart while she listens to these welcome footsteps. She is afraid; full of wonder and awe, yet joyful: she strains her attention, and still listens; she would not lose one of them.

Hush! they are very near: they stop. Some one calls to her by her name, and knocks at her door.

Then she starts up, and opens her door. She falls down upon her knees, and covers her face with her hands. "I am not worthy," she says, in her dream, "that hou shouldst come under my roof; but I beseech thee, Lord, since thou hast deigned to visit me, go away from me no more.'

Oh! wonderful voice; so sweet, that the remembrance of poverty and sorrow fade away before it. It speaks again to her in her dream ;- "To-morrow," it says, "thou shalt be with me in paradise."

THIS WAS THE SECOND DREAM.

It was morning-a cold, keen winter's morning. Justice Wilvermore was coming down-stairs. "Bring me my cloak," he

says to his man. "Before breakfast, sir?" inquires the man, surprised.

"Yes, bring it now," says the Justice. "It is very strange," he thinks to himself, "that a mere dream should have such an effect on my spirits, but so it is. I really can neither eat nor rest till I have made reparation. I will give the old woman money and clothing. I will repair the cottages of my other labourers, and improve their condition. It is a fearful thing to be visited by Remorse, even in a dream. Never will I subject myself to such a visit again."

He walks quickly across the frozen field, and along the side of the water. The reeds are stiff with frost; they whistle cheerlessly in the wind. He sees the cottage; no smoke rises from its chimney. "In future," he says, "the woman shall have leave to gather as much wood as she wants. I will make reparation. Yes, I will make full reparation."

He draws near. The door stands ajar, and there is snow upon the floor; he knocks; there is no answer. "She is not at home," he says, and then he looks in.

Yes, she is at home; she sits before her empty grate, with a book upon her knee; her head is bowed down. Strange that she should sleep so early! His foot is on the floor, he soon crosses it. "Goody," he says, in a kinder voice than usual, "Goody,

what! asleep so early? He shakes her by the sleeve, but she does not wake; then he lays his hand upon hers, and it is cold!

Justice Wilvermore goes home. His face is more grave and his voice more compassionate from that day forward. He has repaired the cottages of his labourers; he has liberally given to the poor, he has made many of the old happy and at ease. But ease and happiness are over for him. He has repented, and he humbly hopes that his sin has been forgiven: but in this world he can never be happy, for night after night, both waking and asleep, he must dwell with that visitor who came to him in his dream.

THE STORY OF LITTLE PATCHY.

FOR BOYS TO READ AND PROFIT BY.

"How are you, little Patchy ?" ex claimed William Brooks, a tall, well-dressed boy, as one of his schoolmates, with large patches on the knees of his trousers, came into the yard. "Cloth is cheap down your way, isn't it? Your mother seems very liberal in the quantity she has stuck ou your knees. Come Tim," he continued, turning toward another well-dressed boy, "let us see if Patchy's mother hasn't used glue on his pants, for I don't believe she can sew as nicely as that."

The two boys started toward the trembling child. "You shan't tear my clothes!” he cried, as William caught his fingers under the edge of one of the patches, "for mother sat up half the night to mend them, and I'll tell the teacher if you don't let me alone."

"Tell the teacher, will you? I should like to see you telling of me. My father would tip you and your mother out of his shanty before you could say Jack Robinson, if you did such a thing as that. Now, go and tell," he continued, as he ripped one of the patches nearly off, leaving Samuel Ward's bare knee exposed.

Samuel, instead of telling the teacher as he had threatened, turned toward home, with the tears running down his rosy cheeks.

"Here, Sam Patch, why don't you tell ?" William added, as he followed behind Samuel. "Ah! I knew you wouldn't dare do it. You'd find that shanty a more ccmfortable place to sleep in to-night than the street, so you'd better trot home and get your mother to mend your clothes; or,

if you like it better, you can call at our kitchen door and ask Bridget to go to the rag-bag and get you one of my old suits, and then it won't cost your mother so much for patches."

Samuel was naturally an amiable boy, but this was too much for his good nature to bear; he turned suddenly toward William, with his face flushed with anger, and exclaimed, "You're an ugly, wicked boy, Bill, and when I'm big enough, I'll give you a good whipping for this! Yes, I'll do it, if I live to be a man!"

"Why, Patchy, dear, you're really getting smart," he returned, in a sneering tone; "I think we must put you in captain of our company. Boys," he continued, turning towards those who had followed him, "let us give three cheers for Patchy."

The air rang with the shouts of half a dozen boys while Samuel was hastening toward home, holding up the patch so that he might hide his naked knee.

Samuel Ward was the only child of his widowed mother. She lived in a little cottage, owned by William Brooks's father, and situated on the outskirts of his farm, and supported herself and her child by doing washing and ironing for the villagers. She could earn but little, and was accordingly obliged to economize closely, in order to supply herself and child with the common necessaries of life. Samuel at this time was eleven years of age, and his mother worked on, hoping that in a few years he would partially support himself, and eventually be able to render her some assistance. He was a sensitive boy, and it often required all the courage he could summon to go to school with his threadbare clothes and naked feet; but his mother used to tell him, if he got his lessons well and obeyed his teacher, it was more to his credit than to be dressed in the finest broadcloth. He felt the truth of this, when he was by his mother's side, but found it hard to realize when his playfellows were making sport of his appearance. He had on this morning felt reluctant to wear the garments his mother had mended, but he resolved to be a remarkably good boy, and then the teacher's praises would make him forget how he looked. When he reached home he found his mother had gone out to work, but he succeeded in entering the house through a window, and then he sat down and cried as if his heart would break. He could see no use in trying to learn, and he resolved he wouldn't go to school any

more, and wouldn't try to be anybody. Then he wished he could die, and his mother too, and go home to heaven and live with his father, where he wouldn't have to wear patches, and where they would all love him and be kind to him. Thus he sat thinking hour after hour, when the bell rang twelve o'clock and his mother came home. She was very sorry for him, but all the consolation she could offer was to mend his clothes, and to advise him to go to school in the afternoon, and perhaps William would not be so unkind again.

He obeyed his mother, but he started to school with not half the courage he had in the morning. On his way, when his eye fell upon the great patches, the tears would begin to chase each other rapidly down his cheeks. He wondered, as he went along, why God let his mother be so poor, when she was the best woman in the whole world, and why he took his father to heaven when they wanted him so much here. Then he thought he ought to love God very much. for letting him stay with his mother, because he afforded her so much comfort, she said, and there would be nothing in the world for her to live for, if it was not for him; and he resolved he would treat every one kindly, let them be as unkind to him as they might.

He succeeded in reaching the school-yard without being observed by the boys, and during the recess, William Brooks was so busy training his company that he did not find time to tease Patchy as usual. When school closed, Samuel hastened home, feeling unusually happy, and his patches looked not more than half as big as when he started for school. The next day, however, William began vexing him by calling him all kinds of comical names to make the boys laugh. Samuel bore his troubles remarkably well, and he tried for his mother's sake to control his temper, though at times it was rather hard work. The only retaliation he ever offered was a threat of what he would do when he grew to be a big boy. For this William called him a coward, and dared him to strike a blow then. Samuel never raised his hand to strike, though he was strongly tempted to do so, and he lived to rejoice that he so manfully resisted this temptation.

Ten years passed away, and Samuel, during the time, by industry and perseverance, had gradually risen, step by step, until he was a clerk, with a salary sufficient

to support himself and his mother comfortably, and able to make a respectable appearance in the world.

He

William Brooks, during the time, had been admitted as a partner in his father's large mercantile establishment, and the firm of Brooks & Co. did the largest wholesale dry-goods business of any house in the city. William, however, was of but little consequence in the firm; he merely had the name of doing business, while his father and his clerks did the work. had no inducement to work, for his father supplied all his wants, and he consequently valued money but little more than the air he breathed. While Samuel, early and late, was poring over long pages of accounts, happy in the thought that he was able to support his mother, and stimulated to still further exertion by the hope that eventually he should have the means to purchase her a home, William was riding about the country, neglecting his business, driving fast horses, and wasting his money by betting on their speed. Thus the two young men started on their journey of life.

Ten years more passed away. During this time, William's father died, and the care of the business fell upon the son, and with the help of the well-trained and faithful clerks his father left behind, his business went on apparently successful for some years. But when the great financial crisis of 1857 came upon the commercial world, with scarcely a day's warning, William found he must sink with the rest. The banks refused to discount his notes, and he could raise no money on either his real estate or personal property. It fell like a terrible blow upon him, when he realized that the property his father had spent a lifetime in accumulating must all be sacrificed to meet a note of only a few thousand dollars.

The morning after the papers had announced his failure, he sat in his office a completely subdued man. He looked back upon his past life and plainly saw wherein he had erred. He had wasted his time and money, and had lived to no purpose whatever but pleasure, when he might at least have secured a knowledge of business during these mis-spent years. Now he had nothing to fall back upon, and bitterly did he regret his folly. As he sat there with a pale, anxious countenance, the door opened, and a stranger entered.

"This is Mr. Brooks, is it not ?" he

me.

"What security can you give?"

A ray of hope lighted up William's countenance as he replied, "Security on the best real estate in the city-worth four times that amount. Have you any idea where the money can be raised?"

"I think I can accommodate you. Seeing a notice of your suspension, and having money I wished to invest, I have travelled over fifty miles this morning in order to help you out of your troubles."

"To whom am I indebted for this act of kindness ?" he exclaimed, as he passionately grasped the stranger's hand.

"You do not remember me; but we were schoolfellows twenty years ago; my name is Ward-Samuel Ward."

"Samuel Ward," he repeated, "the name has gone from me. 'Tis strange I should forget so true and faithful a

friend."

"You have not forgotten Little Patchy, have you, who used to go to the academy at Brookdale, and how the boys used to tease him and laugh at the great patches on his clothes, and he used to run home crying to his poor mother? At any rate, Patchy remembers you. I used to think, if I lived to be a man, I would have my revenge; but manhood has changed my feelings; and when I saw the notice of your failure, I concluded the best punishment I could give you, and the one you would be most likely to remember, and at the same time afford me most satisfaction, would be to lend you a helping hand in the midst of your misfortunes."