hum of haymakers comes to us, but it does not make us merry as once it did. Then come times of deeper gloom. We all tread on tiptoe. We just step within our father's room. His breath is very short and quick, and his eyes are bright--oh, how bright! He places his hand upon our heads, and, in trembling accents, commits us to our Heavenly Father. We hear him say he is tired, and will sleep. All is hushed. He closes his eyes. We watch long to see him wake, but he is now a pure seraph in the presence of his God; and, through life's pilgrimage, he is henceforth to be to those who love him a memory, a dream of other days, and yet a burning and shining light, whose rays penetrate not the less, because they are mild and benign. For some time after this event all seems a blank. There is a sale at our house. Our cherished things are going to be taken from us. Then I understand that we are poor. My mother has a little, but not enough for our support; so she is fain to accept an offer that has been made her by a distant relative, who keeps a boarding-school for young ladies in a distant county. My mother is to assist in the school. She does not much like the scheme. She is telling all to a sympathizing friend. She speaks rather in a shuddering way of her relative, whom she describes as overbearing and tyrannical. Henceforth I look on this lady as a kind of dragon, and my state of mind toward her is not such as to insure her regard. I can not now speak of the tokens of affection we receive from our loving friends. Now the children call with nosegays of wild flowers. Now my little brother has a rabbit given him; I a canary. Now cakes and sweetmeats are thrust into our hands from humble donors, with tears and blessings. Now my mother receives anonymous gifts, from a £20 note, down to a pair of knitted stockings to travel in, accompanied by an ill-spelt, ill-written blessing and prayer, "That the Almighty will set his two eyes on the purty lady and her children, and make his honor's bed in heaven, although he did not worshyp the blessed Vargin." My mother smiles through her tears, for she knows this is from old Judy, our Romish neighbor, whom, in a fit of illness, she befriended, long ago. And so, after much loving leave-taking, we depart, and at length reach our destination.