There was, until the other day, a man living in a great commercial city of the north of England. He was a man beloved and honoured, taking a foremost part, though still comparatively young, in all the varied activities of civic beneficence and charity. He never went into society. He lived much to himself. But wherever any social good was to be done, labour to be provided, thrift to be fostered, temperance to be promoted, sorrow to be relieved, he was found there. He was never married. When he came to that city and began to be known there, people said, ‘He is sure to marry soon;’ after a time they said, ‘It is a strange thing that he has never married;’ at last they said, ‘He will never marry now.’ Could they have read his secret, they would have seen that he wore ever next his heart a small golden locket containing the portrait of a beautiful and delicate girl, and on the shell of the locket, in pure enamel, the one word ETHEL. He is dead now. PRINTED BY SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE LONDON Transcriber’s Notes A few minor obvious errors in punctuation were fixed.