Deposits may be made by married women, and in that case their husbands have no control over the money. They can draw from it when they please, and bequeath it by will to any person they choose. The Post Office Savings Bank adapts itself to saving on the smallest scale. If a girl can only save a penny at a time, she can with the penny buy a stamp, and the stamp she can stick on a form with twelve divisions, supplied by the Post Office. When she has in this way saved twelve stamps, she must take it to the post office, and have the shilling entered in a regular bank account. But the Post Office undertakes more business in connection with money than merely storing it up against a rainy day. Of that, however, we shall speak in our next article. (_To be continued._) A SONG FOR THE OLD YEAR. BY M. M. POLLARD. A tale of the past, a tale of the past! Of the days that have vanished, the first and the last, Of the year, the old year that has met with its doom, And is vanished for ever in time’s yawning tomb! The snow of December is spread as a pall Of white-crested trophies to mourn for its fall, And the flow of the river is hushed in its bed, Silent and still as the year that has fled. Bright were the blossoms that welcomed its birth, Springing afresh from the bosom of earth, Smiling in valley, on mountain, and glade, Gladdening the pathway in sunshine or shade. But they have budded and blossomed to fall, Summer birds answer no more to the call, They are gone—and the wail of the chill wintry blast Sweeps like the sound of a requiem past. E’en as the seasons my life-tale has been, Sunshine has lightened up many a scene; Sometimes the hours seemed all brightness and joy, Cloudless and calm as a sweet summer sky; Sometimes the beauty fled swiftly away, As rising clouds shadow the glory of day, For life has all changes—is joyous or drear, Like the seasons that make up thy round, hoary year! And many more cycles will swiftly roll past, With changes, and sunshine, and gloom like the last, Giving new birth to the blossom and rill, And voices will praise them when mine shall be still, And others will welcome with gladness or tears, The hope and the promise of many more years. Oh, year that is vanished! I bid thee farewell, And the chill winds of winter are sounding thy knell. [Illustration: THE NEW YEAR’S BELLS.] MERLE’S CRUSADE. BY ROSA NOUCHETTE CAREY, Author of “Aunt Diana,” “For Lilias,” etc. CHAPTER XI. MARSHLANDS. We had started by an early train, and arrived at Netherton soon after four. I knew we were to be met at the station, and was not at all surprised when a fresh-coloured, white-haired old gentleman brandished his stick as a token of welcome to Joyce. I was quite sure that it was Squire Cheriton before Joyce clapped her hands and exclaimed, “There’s gran.”