One of the five, the first in the row, was that wonderful record of a consecrated life, "Crowned in Palm-Land"; and the pastor, as he read the sweet, and simple, and unutterably pathetic story of that life of love and service, and finally of that lonely death, with not a human eye to watch the last triumph of faith as the feet touched the valley of the shadow, felt that such a book would do faithful work for Jennie and for Africa. Barely five days after Jennie had been laid to rest in the hillside Cemetery that consecrated book began its work for foreign missions, the story of which can only be told when we all meet where they will never say foreign missions any more, because the foreigners will have become fellow-citizens. "There are ten of us still," said the girls, looking through tears at the consecrated upper shelf. "Jennie is working with us." And they felt, every one, that the Penn Avenue library had received its "lifting up." FISHING FOR PHIL. ——— CHAPTER I. SHE, Daisy, knelt upstairs in front of the window, looking down on the snowy street. A pretty picture she made, framed in the frosty window, her fresh young breath making fancy shapes of the frost-work. A brown head, crowned with masses of hair of that peculiar shade of brown which makes you think when you look at it on a cloudy day, that the sun is certainly shining somewhere and rippling those waves of hair with gold. It was not banged; it was not even frizzed. Daisy's mother belonged to that class, of which there are a few rare specimens still extant, who liked neither style, and Daisy herself belonged to that possibly still rarer class of girls, who liked above all things to dress to please her mother. There had been an attempt to make the brown hair lie in smooth and glossy bands, but Nature had been too much for the owner. The hair escaped, and waved and frizzed itself to that inimitable way which is so very pretty and becoming, and of which all the hair-pin efforts are such exasperating imitations. Brown eyes under the hair, large, bright, sweet, sad or grave, according to the mood of the wearer. Eyes which changed with the changing expression, and seemed to do much of the speaking. For the rest, you may imagine her. There was a clear complexion; there was a sweet mouth and rosy cheeks. There are a great many such girls, and yet they lack the something which, shining in Daisy's face, made the looker want to turn and look again, and half smile, in sympathy with the charm lingering there. What is it? Who shall describe it? I fancy it is one of the ways in which the soul looks out from its prison-house of clay. Yet who will undertake to describe a soul?