If poverty stands at thy cottage door— Squalid poverty, faint and weak— Begging a crust from thy little store. Or the poor, cheap rest that the weary seek; Remember thou, that the mighty wheel Of fortune changes, day by day; Never be deaf to the poors’ appeal— Turn not away. If thy brother fall in the slippery path, And his hands are stained with human sin, If the sword of the world is raised in wrath, And no city of refuge invites him in; If his pitiful cry come up to thee, Remember that all men go astray, Still let thy heart his refuge be— Turn not away. If life grows dark as thy years roll by, And Heaven is veiled in cloud and storm, Oh! still look up with a trusting eye, For a beckoning smile from an angel form; So shall thy heart keep its holy laws, Fulfilling its mission day by day, And God, when thou pleadest thy final cause— Turn not away. * * * * * COUSIN FANNY. BY M. S. G. NICHOLS, AUTHOR OF “UNCLE JOHN,” “THE WORLD AS IT IS,” ETC. CHAPTER I. A pale, wan woman, with a young girl by her side, walked quickly along Chatham street, just as the twilight was deepening into darkness. She was very thinly clad, her light shawl was only a covering—it was no protection from the keen autumn air. It had once been an elegant and fashionable silk, but its fashion had long since passed away. It had been colored and colored again, until its substance had well-nigh disappeared. Her straw bonnet had been renovated many times, but not for a long time, and its faded ribbon was passed plainly over the crown, for it would have been mockery to make such ribbon into bows. Every thing that covered this young creature was passing away, and as she entered a pawn-broker’s shop, you might have seen by the light of the lamp that fell on her face, that she, too, was passing from a world that had given her small welcome, at least for many years. It would have been a comfort to any benevolent person, who had looked into that pale face, to have seen the red spot on one of her cheeks, and to have heard her cough. What had she to do in a world so cold, with that miserable shawl to wrap around her ulcerated lungs, that smarted like fire with every breath of cold air they inhaled. She might as well have wrapped herself in cobwebs, as in clothes such as hers.