reading the newspaper, little Alice fretted and cried. He said, impatiently, “I wish you would carry that child away. Her noise disturbs me.” Tears came to the mother’s eyes, as she answered, “She is not well; poor little thing! She has taken cold.” “I am sorry for that,” he replied, and hurried to go out and exult with his neighbour concerning the political tidings. At night, the child was unusually peevish and restless. She toddled up to her father’s knees, and cried for him to rock her to sleep. He had just taken her in his arms, and laid her little head upon his bosom, when the neighbour came for him to go to a political supper. He said the mails that night must bring news that would decide the question. The company would wait for their arrival, and then have a jubilee in honour of Harrison’s success. The child cried and screamed, when George put her away into the mother’s arms; and he said sternly, “Naughty girl! Father don’t love her when she cries.” “She is not well,” replied the mother, with a trembling voice, and hurried out of the room. It was two o’clock in the morning before George returned; but late as it was, his wife was sitting by the fire. “Hurrah for the old coon!” he exclaimed. “Harrison is elected.” She threw herself on his bosom, and bursting into tears, sobbed out, “Oh, hush, hush, dear George! Our little Alice is dead!” Dead! and the last words he had spoken to his darling had been unkind. What would he not have given to recall them now? And his poor wife had passed through that agony, alone in the silent midnight, without aid or consolation from him. A terrible weight oppressed his heart. He sank into a chair, drew the dear sufferer to his bosom, and wept aloud. * * * * *