able to earn a living; to confess the truth, I have not one dollar left in the world.” “Bah! Don’t be down-hearted on that account,” said Marguerite. “My Frog Emporium is a little gold-mine, and you shall need for nothing. Why, as I have already remarked more than once, I’d have been ere now in a wretched plight but for you. You stretched out a helping hand; and whatever the world may think of you, and whatever you think of yourself—I—I call you a genius.” When Marguerite had delivered this speech, so full of balm to poor heart-broken Abel, she rose from the bench and flew to the old, neglected manuscript. A bright idea had flashed upon her—’twas an inspiration. She had already turned over its pages and found them covered with drawings as unintelligible to her as Egyptian hieroglyphics; but she remembered that in one place, written in pencil, were the words, “This is Abel Day’s Patent Log.” In a moment she was back at Abel’s side, and, holding up the manuscript before him, “I do believe,” she said, “had I been with you when you were laboring on this invention, that you would not have fallen ill, for I should not have let you overtask your brain; and by this time ’twould have been quite finished, and you’d have been in the eyes of the whole world what I know you to be—a great, great, great man.” But Abel, instead of replying, put his hands to his ears and shivered as if he were stricken with cold. “O dear friend! what is the matter now?” exclaimed Marguerite. “The very sight of that manuscript makes me dread the voices—the horrid voices. Hark! one is beginning to yell again. It says I must hang myself in the end. Hark! Don’t you hear it?” “Listen to me, and not to the voice,” said Marguerite, still holding before his eyes the page whereon was written, “This is Abel Day’s Patent Log.” “Take courage and look bolder at this manuscript, while I sing for you.” It was a cheery, jovial song she sang. She threw her whole soul into it, and it wrought upon Abel the happy effect she hoped it would. When the song was ended, he bowed his head and murmured: “O my blessing! my good angel! How much sunshine you bring to me! Already the voice is gone. You have indeed power to drive the fiend away.” “Well, now, Abel,” answered Marguerite, “you whom—whom I—I—” Here her tongue faltered. But as mother earth cannot restrain the crystal waters murmuring within her bosom, so it was impossible for the girl to hold back the words which were bubbling up from the pure fountain of her heart; and presently, with a blushing rose on each cheek, she spoke out and said: “You whom I love, let me ask you to kneel with me and offer thanks to Almighty God that I am able to drive away your melancholy. Yes, let us say a prayer of thanksgiving.” Abel did as she wished, and they knelt and prayed together.