“Yes,” continued Mrs. B., “he seems to have had it on his mind; for last summer, when he saved our little Willy from drowning, and I in gratitude asked him what I should give him, he said he wanted nothing; but if I would only beg of you to let him go to see his sister. I told him I would; but I thought afterward, if he was going to remain with us, it were better he should give up such associations.” During the above conversation poor Arthur was pursuing his tedious way along a rough frozen road toward the city of P——. In his hand he bore a little bundle, the hoarded treasures of months, destined as gifts for that dear, loved sister. The day had been beautifully clear, but as night approached, dark clouds hung over the earth, and the snow had already begun to fall. Still Arthur continued his lone and weary way; sometimes blinded by the snow, he would stumble into a rut, or fall upon the slippery ground, until completely exhausted, he leaned against a tree for support. “Who goes there?” cried a rough voice—and a man, bearing an axe upon his shoulder, emerged from the gloom. “It is a poor boy,” answered Arthur, “that’s going to P—— to see his sister.” “To P——! not to-night, surely! that’s thirty miles from here. Where are you from, my lad?” “From L——, sir,” answered Arthur. “From L——! and have you walked all that distance to-day?” “I have, sir,” was Arthur’s reply. “Then you’ve walked far enough for one day, my boy; beside, you are on the wrong track. Come, go home with me, take a good sleep, and start fresh in the morning.” “Could I get there, to-morrow evening?” asked Arthur, hesitatingly. “You may not—but what then, there’s another day.” “But to-morrow will be Christmas Eve!” here his voice began to tremble. “Never mind, my lad, come with me, and if I find you a good boy, I will try to help you on the way.” And reaching forth, he grasped the unresisting hand of Arthur. It was long since the poor boy had heard words of kindness, and there was something in the warm grasp of that hard hand, and in the tones of that coarse voice which recalled the visions of the past, and the tears silently coursed each other down his cheeks, as he involuntarily clung closer to the side of his companion. When the cottager arrived at his neat home, there burned a bright, cheerful blaze, around which his wife and children waited his return. He presented Arthur, saying, “Here, Mary, I have brought you a little traveler to spend the night, who is on his way to P—— to see his sister, and has walked all the way from L—— this cold day.” “Poor boy!” said she, rising, and taking his cold hands within her own, then brushing his dark locks from his pale brow, and glancing at her own hearty, cheerful-faced little ones, (who had clustered around to get a sly peep at the stranger,) she murmured, “Poor boy, a mere child, to be going so far! Have you no mother?” Poor Arthur could bear no more; at the name of _mother_, he bent his head, and sobbed aloud.