long-legged pauper on his bed, in a very short shirt and nothing more; he was dangling his legs contentedly back and forth, and wheezing the music of " Camptown Races" out of a paper-overlaid comb, which he was pressing against his mouth; by him lay a new jewsharp, a new top, a solid India rubber ball, a handful of painted marbles, five pounds of "store" candy, and a wellgnawed slab of gingerbread as big and as thick as a volume of sheet music. He had sold the skeleton to a traveling quack for three dollars, and was enjoying the result.

MARK TWAIN.

L

DEATH OF LITTLE PAUL DOMBEY.

ITTLE DOMBEY had never risen from his little

bed. He lay there, listening to the noises in the street, quite tranquilly; not caring much how the time went, but watching it and watching everything.

When the sunbeams struck into his room through the rustling blinds, and quivered on the opposite wall, like golden water, he knew that evening was coming on, and that the sky was red and beautiful. As the reflection died away, and a gloom went creeping up the wall, he watched it deepen, deepen, deepen into night. Then he thought how the long unseen streets were dotted with lamps, and how the peaceful stars were shining overhead. His fancy had a strange tendency to wander to the river, which he knew was flowing through the great city; and now he thought how black it was, and how deep it would look reflecting the hosts of stars; and,

more than all, how steadily it rolled away to meet the

sea.

As it grew later in the night, and footsteps in the street became so rare that he could hear them coming, count them as they passed, and lose them in the hollow distance, he would lie and watch the many-colored ring about the candle, and wait patiently for day. His only trouble was the swift and rapid river. He felt forced, sometimes, to try to stop it-to stem it with his childish hands, or choke its way with sand; and when he saw it coming on, resistless, he cried out! But a word from Florence, who was always at his side, restored him to himself; and, leaning his poor head upon her breast, he told Floy of his dream, and smiled.

When the day began to dawn again, he watched for the sun; and when its cheerful light began to sparkle in the room, he pictured to himself-pictured! he sawthe high church towers rising up into the morning sky, the town reviving, waking, starting into life once more, the river glistening as it rolled (but rolling fast as ever), and the country bright with dew. Familiar sounds and cries came by degrees into the street below; the servants in the house were roused and busy; faces looked in at the door, and voices asked his attendants softly how he was. Paul always answered for himself, "I am better. I am a great deal better, thank you' Tell papa s>!"

By little and little, he got tired of the bustle of the day, and noise of carriages and carts, and people passing and re-passing, and would fall asleep, or be troubled with a restless and uneasy sense again. "Why, will it never stop, Floy?" he would sometimes ask her. "It is bearing me away, I think!"

But she could always soothe and reassure him; and it was his daily delight to make her lay her head down on his pillow, and take some rest.

You are always watching me, Floy. Let me watch you, now!"

They would prop him up with cushions in a corner of his bed, and there he would recline, the while she lay beside him-bending forward oftentimes to kiss her, and whispering to those who were near, that she was tired, and how she had sat up so many nights beside him.

The people round him changed unaccountably, and what had been the doctor would be his father, sitting with his head leaning on his hand. This figure, with its head leaning on its hand, returned so often, and remained so long, and sat so still and solemn, never speaking, never being spoken to, and rarely lifting up its face, that Paul began to wonder languidly if it were real.

"Floy! What is that?"

"Where, dearest ?"

"There! at the bottom of the bed."

"There's nothing there, except papa!"

The figure lifted up its head and rose, and, coming to the bedside, said:

"My own boy! Don't you know me?"

Paul looked it in the face. Before he could reach out both his hands to take it between them and draw it toward him, the figure turned away quickly from the little bed and went out at the door.

The next time he observed the figure sitting at the bottom of the bed he called to it.

"Don't be so sorry quite happy!"

for me,

dear

papa.

Indeed, I am

His father coming and bending down to him, he held him round the neck, and repeated those words to him. several times, and very earnestly; and he never saw his father in his room again at any time, whether it were day, or night, but he called out, Don't be so sorry for me! Indeed, I am quite happy!"

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How many times the golden water danced upon the wall, how many nights the dark river rolled toward the sea in spite of him, Paul never sought to know. If their kindness, or his sense of it, could have increased, they were more kind, and he more grateful, every day; but whether there were many days or few, appeared of little moment now to the gentle boy.

One night he had been thinking of his mother and her picture in the drawing-room down-stairs. The train of thought suggested to him to inquire if he had ever seen his mother. For he could not remember whether they had told him yes or no; the river running very fast, and confusing his mind.

“Floy, did I ever see mamma?"

"No, darling; why?"

"Did I never see any kind face, like a mamma's, looking at me when I was a baby, Floy?"

"And where is my old nurse? Show me that old nurse, Floy, if you please!"

"She is not here, darling. She shall come to-morrow." "Thank you, Floy!"

Little Dombey closed his eyes with those words, and fell asleep. When he awoke, the sun was high, and the broad day was clear and warm. Then he awoke-woke

mind and body-and sat upright in his bed. He saw them now about him. There was no gray mist before them, as there had been sometimes in the night. He knew them every one, and called them by their names.

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And who is this? Is this my old nurse?" asked the child, regarding, with a radiant smile, a figure coming in.

Yes, yes. No other stranger would have shed those tears at sight of him, and called him her dear boy, her pretty boy, her own poor, blighted child. No other woman would have stooped down by his bed, and taken up his wasted hand, and put it to her lips and breast, as one who had some right to fondle it. No other woman would have so forgotten everybody there but him and Floy, and been so full of tenderness and pity.

"Floy! this is a kind, good face! I am glad to see it again. Don't go away, old nurse. Stay here. Goodbye!"

"Good-bye, my child ?” cried Mrs. Pipchin, hurrying to his bed's head. "Not good-bye?"

"Ah, yes! Good-bye!-Where is papa!"

His father's breath was on his cheek before the words had parted from his lips. The feeble hand waved in the air, as if it cried "Good-bye!" again.

"Now lay me down; and, Floy, come close to me, and let me see you."

Sister and brother wound their arms around each other, and the golden light came streaming in, and fell upon them, locked together.

"How fast the river runs, between its green banks and the rushes, Floy! But it's very near the sea now. I hear the waves! They always said so!"

Presently he told her that the motion of the boat upon