The Widow Barnes was bending over her smoky old stove, trying to coax some green knots to ignite, when the sleigh stopped in front of her house. She had a dream, too, last night. It was about Heaven. That happy place seemed to be filled with blankets and warm fires. But here, behold, was Heaven come down to her door! She assured the man he had come to the wrong place, but the note he handed her, with money to buy a whole load of wood, settled the matter. From that time forth Miss Rachel took it upon her, as a sacred trust, to see to it that the Widow Barnes lacked for nothing. And, strange to relate, her subscriptions to foreign missions, home missions, freedmen, education, etc., have not been cut down a particle in consequence. [Illustration: THE DOCTOR'S STORY.] THE DOCTOR'S STORY. ——— "I WANT to tell you a story, young man." The speaker was the Rev. Joseph Mentor, D. D., a gray-haired, keen-eyed, large-brained, sweet-faced, grand old Christian. He sat in his own parlor, which was not a parlor, after all, but a sort of study; lined with books on every hand, almost crowded with easy chairs; convenient little writing-tables occupying cosy corners, with all the appurtenances thereto lavishly furnished, coaxing the privileged guest to write his letters, or arrange his neglected accounts, or read items from the various journals of the day, at his elbow, as his taste might dictate. The present occupants of the room were three; the aforesaid Doctor, leaning back at rest in his favorite study chair—his life had been a long, grand one, and if ever disciple of the Master could afford to rest on earth, the Rev. Joseph Mentor might have claimed the privilege; yet his very rest was active; the Doctor's son, a young man of twenty-five or so, now co-pastor, who had excused himself to their guest, in the manner that one may treat guests who are almost as much at home as they are themselves—on the plea that there were two important letters to answer for the evening mail—and then had turned to one of the writing-tables, leaving his father to entertain the young man with a pale face and scholarly air, who sat in a half-dejected attitude in the straight-backed, old-fashioned chair near the Doctor. It was to him that the old gentleman had turned with the apparently abrupt statement,— "I want to tell you a story, young man?" That the young man would be glad to hear any story that Doctor Mentor might choose to honor him with, was evident from the flash of his eyes and the instant look of interest that overspread his face.