shelves, and purchased three dozen more volumes of cyclopædias, histories, biographies, and dictionaries, ordering their covers all to be taken off, and rebound in the same brown morocco.

As the man went out of the bookstore, Harry said, “That will make five hundred new volumes we have bound over for Mr. Whimser." "What an old granny he is!" thought I, "to want all his books, with their diversity of talent and rare individuality of style, colored and covered alike. I'd as soon think of requiring all my gentlemen friends to come and see me in new black suits, and all the ladies to visit me in brown dresses! He'll waste enough money on those extra covers to buy a small, choice library for some poor student."

As Mr. Whimser went out, he brushed contemptuously aside a little ragged boy, who was holding out his thin hand for a penny to buy some bread with, and then walks on and goes into the bank, to deposit a thousand dollars in gold, saying to himself, "I can't give anything to idle beggars these hard times."

I am home again. I fix the window-shade so that I can see out, but no one see me. I watch for somebody; 'tis the first time I have watched for any one since mother died. How blessed the heart that has always some one to watch and wait for! I hear carriage-wheels rapidly rolling over the pavement. There comes the carriage; that is a superb horse and splendidly managed; he stops at the moment, promptly, suddenly. He is a very wise-looking horse, though he has not quite so intellectual a face as the artist gave to the picture of Washington's horse, exhibited years ago in the much-lamented Crystal Palace; that had an expression more rare and ideal than many living men's. I think if it were a true portrait of the illustrious animal, it must have been a little flattered. The longer you gazed at it, you felt that it could understand and sympathize with you.

The carriage stops first at 271; then goes on again slowly stops at 275. It is a doctor's carriage, and a tall, dignified-looking man gets out and walks up the steps. As he turns his head a little, to ring the bell, I can just see one side of his face; I should think he had black wavy hair. As he goes in, I think that is Luke Boynton, M. D. I sit watching the door for half an hour, until he comes out; his face is very light for such dark hair and eyes. A little child has tumbled down on the walk; she is not hurt, only frightened a little. He catches up the child, gives her a kiss, puts her down tenderly on the walk, hurries into the carriage and drives off rapidly. That is Dr. Boynton, I

say. With all his pressure of business, if he can stop to kiss a strange child, I think I'll trust my patient with him. "Laurence Greenleaf," I say, 66 you have selected the right man this time." Prudence Potter drops a stitch in her knitting as she looks out of the front window, and says, "That man can't be much of a doctor, if he can stop to waste his time with other people's young ones. You would n't catch old Dr. Koorall to stop a minute for anything, when he goes to see the sick, his time is too vallible.” Just after the doctor goes, my drummer-boy, James Rogers, walks by, in his new suit of blue uniform. As Prudence sees him walking rapidly down-street, she says, "There's so many of these shiftless fellows around, I'm so glad we 're goin' to get rid of some of them. There's always such a set of loafers in the street, it's a good thing to have a war to clear some of them out."

.

Poor old Mrs. Rogers sits by her window and sees James go, crying as if her heart would break. When she has seen the last look of his cap, as he turns round the corner, she goes to bed with one of her terrible sick headaches; any great excitement always brings them on. How shall I find out how many visits Dr. Boynton makes? I must know, so as to pay the bill promptly. I would n't have him think that Laurence Greenleaf was a sneak, or did n't pay his debts. I might ask Prudence Potter; she'd be sure to know just when and how often the Doctor comes, but I would n't dare get acquainted with her, she'd certainly fathom some of my plots, and thus puzzle, perplex, and disappoint very much Mr. Laurence Greenleaf.

I know what I'll do. I'll get Harry to call around every other evening, and see how Mildred Lee is. He'll know about the Doctor's visits. I'd give more for one Harry, with his fearless frankness and incorruptible honesty, than for five hundred Prudence Potters. But Mildred Lee must need money. How will she pay for prescriptions, potions, and plasters? I write a note in my assumed masculine style, directing it to Mildred Lee, enclosing $10 for the little incidental expenses of sickness, and signing it, "Laurence Greenleaf." I put on a stamp, send it by Bridget, who is going right by the post-office, on her way to the ferry. Bridget can't read a word of writing; so my secret is safe there.

I have been so busy thinking about other people, that all my things are getting out of order. I am going to take everything out of my bureau, and arrange all the drawers. If there's anything makes me uncomfortable, it is to have my drawers out of order.

Ernest Heart came home Wednesday night, half sick and wholly discouraged. He walks up-stairs, softly and slowly; he does n't wish to meet anybody.

"I can't stay here long," he says to himself. "I'll go tomorrow. I won't stay anywhere where I can't pay; I'll live out-doors first. I can get no more copying now, and no pay for my articles." And he throws a rejected manuscript contemptuously on the floor, as he says, "There's another monument for Fame's Greenwood. I'll never offer it again. My whole heart is in the book. There are embalmed my dead hopes; there flit my ideals, like beautiful visions. Child of my brain, I had hoped to see it wreathed and crowned. Josiah January says the book is full of platitudes. Platitudes! that settles it. I wonder if he ever thinks of any other word. And he a poet, too. I thought he would find some chord there, to which his heart would respond. If a critic wants to be very comprehensive, very discriminating, remarkably sharp and wise, he 'll be sure, he'll be sure to say the book is full of platitudes. But I am borne down with a heavy weight of obligation I can't meet. Debt is a demon to haunt, a ghost to mock, a scorpion to sting. I would saw wood, put in coal, clean the streets, shovel snow, do anything to get out of this galling, oppressing, maddening, stinging debt. It is bad enough to owe a man, but to owe a woman, whose life is already worn and worried with perpetual planning to meet to-day's expenses, pay yesterday's bills and provide to-morrow's provisions, to owe her fifteen dollars, for five weeks' lodging and breakfast, when I have n't five cents more in my pocket than I had five weeks ago! That fifteen dollars is to me a fortune, immense, inaccessible. Fifteen dollars is more to him who has n't a cent than fifteen thousand to one who has his thousands stored in the bank, away from moth and rust.”

Oh! how the ethereal folds of Ernest Heart's ideal self were being fast consumed by the moth of want, - the fine gold of his rare intellect rusting away under the canker of care.

He sits down in one corner, as if to hide away from himself. The room is cold; there's no fire in his grate; his head ached so hard that morning, he ate no breakfast; he has eaten nothing since. Oh, how his head aches now!

If the great Tempter came to our adorable Redeemer when he had long fasted, might he not come to Ernest Heart, as, hungry and weary, he climbs the dark mountain of suffering? He did come, and whispered to his sensitive, stricken nature, that

could not beg and would not borrow, "There's no such thing as Providence. Fools and scoundrels have ease, rest, comfort, and gold to spare, while you, Ernest Heart, forsaken, forgotten, and forlorn, perish with hunger. Rich fools, that never read and never think, buy large valuable libraries, while your hungry soul is denied even its coveted "Cosmos." Give up your foolish trust in that false Providence, which deserts you, patient and worthy, and lavishes fame and fortune on the unthankful and the evil."

Ernest Heart closed his eyes a moment, and said, almost audibly, and with a deep groan, "Get thee behind me, Satan." He looked up at last, and saw the bundle on the table. "There's some mistake," thought he. "I have bought nothing for three months: only one pocket-handkerchief and two collars. I'll take it down-stairs and ask about it." As he takes it up, he sees his own name written on the outside of the bundle; "Ernest Heart."

He tears off the wrapper; there's a whole pile of books. He reads on the back of each volume, "Cosmos"; he lets the books fall on the floor, and bursts into tears. Poor Ernest Heart, he came so near listening to the Tempter's voice, "Curse God and die." He even began to think, last night, as he stood on the Battery, he would like to plunge into the deep, dark water, and be borne along on its silent tide, forgotten, and float off into oblivion, live and breathe no more, and run the fearful risk of landing uncalled on the Eternal shore. He shuddered now as he thought of it. There was his coveted, longed-for "Cosmos." He could hardly have been happier with the universe, all the kingdoms of the world, and the glory of them, at his feet. Was not there in those five volumes the kingdom of thought, with its wondrous glory? His, his "Cosmos." The Tempter had taken him weary and hungry up into an exceeding high mountain of suffering, but the dark shadow of his satanic robes was drooping behind that Ernest Heart. Let him weep awhile; it will do him good. At last he gathers up the volumes, and opens the first. His name is written on the blank page, and with it, these words, "He shal deliver thee in six troubles, yea in seven there shall no evil touch thee." "That was mother's favorite verse," thought he; "she repeated it over the Sabbath morning before she died." As he turned over the leaf, there fell out and dropped on the floor a five-dollar bill. He picks it up, opens the second volume, and there is his name, and another verse, and another five-dollar bill; and this is the verse: "No mention shall be made of coral, or of

pearls, for the price of wisdom is above rubies." There was a verse and a five-dollar bill in each volume. The words written in the fifth book were these: "For we have not a High Priest that cannot be touched with the feeling of our infirmities, but was in all points tempted like as we are, yet without sin.”

Ernest Heart takes the money, five five-dollar bills, lays it in a little pile together, counts it over, looks at it, and does n't know how to act. He dances up and down, almost wild with excitement, as he puts the money into his empty pocket-book, goes down-stairs, asks Mrs. Cater if the boy from the book-store brought that bundle.

66

Oh, no, sir," said Bridget, coming up-stairs just then; "he was a strange boy."

"I should like to see him," said Mr. Heart.

"That you can't, sir," said Bridget, "for. he told me he was going to be a drummer-boy in the R- regiment that went away this afternoon at five. I saw the men go.'

وو

Ernest Heart pays Mrs. Cater fifteen dollars for his five weeks' lodging and breakfast, and, with a light step and lighter heart, goes back up-stairs, saying to himself," If the boy is really gone, I can't find out anything; but I have got the books, and I did n't steal them." He takes two crackers out of his pocket and a piece of cheese from his closet, and, with his keen appetite and light heart, fares sumptuously for once on these savory and satisfactory delicacies, for there is a rich repast on the table before him, his dainty, delicious dessert, that feast of pure reason, that flow of great soul, his well-done, most excellent " Cosmos." There is no fire in his grate; he wraps himself up in the bedclothes to keep warm, his head bolstered up with three pillows, and reads the golden flow of Aristotle's eloquence, solves with Humboldt the "holy problem of the Universe," learns of the stars that are new, and the stars that are vanished, sure that some new morning-star has risen in his soul, and the star has vanished forever. He reads in volume first, the Translator's Preface, the Author's Preface, and the Summary, closes that volume, takes up the second, opens to modern prose-writers, reads of philosophy, physics, and poetry, and closes the book at the eighty-second page, singing with Goethe,

"Ein sanfter Wind vom blauen Himmel weht,

Die Myrte still, und hoch der Lorbeer steht."

-

wormwood

He lays the volume under his pillow, and falls asleep. "Tis