her own little portfolio, one that she had made herself out of some colored paper, and asked him if he would use her pen and paper. He did so, and then wrapped up the little home-made article in a newspaper, and carried it away with him, without saying a word. Stella thought it very queer that he should do so, and she almost dropped a tear at the thought of losing it, for it had cost her a good many hours of busy work to make it. After awhile a boy brought it back, wrapped in the same paper, but as it had her name on the outside, she thought she would open it, to see what he had put in it; "some paper, I dare say, in place of that which he had used." That was not what she found; she found in place of her old one, the most beautiful portfolio that could be found in New York, filled with all sorts of stationery that could be desired. After supper was over, of course Stella had to get her portfolio, and show it, and talk about it; and then Mr. Lovetree talked about what he had written with Stella's pen--it was his will. "I have made," said he, "Athalia my heir. I adopt her as my daughter, and shall always treat her as my child. I hope she will always feel towards me as she would if I were her father in fact. She is an orphan, and she is----a widow." "A widow--a widow?" "Is Walter dead?" "Is that so, uncle--father?" "Yes, it is so. When I went to the attorney to see if I had got my will all right, and when he came to the name of Athalia Morgan, he said, 'Oh, that is Walter Morgan's widow.' Then, I said, widow, widow, just as you all did a minute since. And he told me, that was the fact; and a good thing it was that he was dead, for he got to be a terrible sot. And now, Athalia is my heir, and my executor. When I am dead she will do what she pleases with what I leave, and get married again if she likes; she has promised me that she never will while I live. There is one little clause in my will that I will read now, for I like to make people happy, and I am going to make a mother happy, free from anxiety about what her child will do when she is gone. This is the clause, 'To the owner of the pen with which I wrote this will, I bequeath five hundred dollars.'" "Why, what is there in that to cry about? Bless my heart, I thought I was going to make you all happy, and here you are all shedding tears." "Oh, uncle, uncle, you have made us happy. These are tears of joy and gladness. How noble, how generous, how good!" "Just like him," said the other gentleman. "This to me! Oh, Mr. Lovetree, this to the poor widow! This to my daughter!" "To me, mother, to me? Does it mean me? Yes! Oh, mother, may I kiss him?"