"And Sunday too," observed old Mrs. Harley, who was seated by her husband. "I hope, Paul, that you left off your dancing?" Paul only, in reply, gave a saucy laugh, which pained his good grandparents. They had brought up the orphan boy ever since he had been a helpless baby, and had now, in return for their loving care, but disrespect and disobedience. On the year of which I am writing, the thirty-first of December fell on a Sunday, and it was on the evening of this Sunday that Paul stood talking to his grandparents in the little parlour of their home, in one of the suburbs of London. "We were sorry not to have you with us at church this morning, Paul," observed Harley. The old man and his feeble wife had with no small difficulty made their way to the house of prayer, to praise their Maker for mercies received through the closing year, and to ask for His blessing on the year so soon to open. The New Year to one or both of them, as they thought, was likely to be the last, but neither of them feared to "go home" to the rest prepared for the people of God. "I don't care to go to morning service," replied Paul, bluntly; "I take my ease, and lie late in bed on Sundays, at least in such freezing weather as this. But I mean to go to-night to seven o'clock service; for I like to see the church all lit up, with the gas-lights flaring on the evergreens and the wreaths with which it is decked. I like, too, the hymn which is to be sung, it has such a pretty tune." And without the least reverence of manner, Paul rather bawled out than sang the first lines of a well-known hymn— "'A few more years shall roll, A few more seasons come, And we shall be with those who sleep At rest within the tomb.'" "Hush, my dear child, hush!" cried Mrs. Harley, with a shocked look. "You don't seem to think of the meaning of the words which you are singing." Paul took no notice of the gentle reproof. "It's time for me to be off to church," said he; "it must be just on seven; I think the bells have stopped their ringing. Don't stay supper for me; I'm going to Uncle Sam's after I've been at church; he's to have lobster salad for supper on New Year's Eve, and I like that a deal better than your porridge. I mean to stop the night at Uncle Sam's, and get some fun with his boys on New Year's morning." "Take your comforter!" cried the grandmother. "You're not the lad to stand sharp cold; remember that you nearly died of rheumatic fever last March!" "I'm not going to coddle myself like an old woman!" exclaimed the boy. "Cold only catches those who have to creep like snails!" Paul took down his cap from its peg as he spoke, and went off to church, certainly not in a mood either to praise or to pray.