vain to find you; that it was a constant grief to him that he and his father had judged you harshly; that he would give his fortune to know where you are and make things right. You see what child's play it seemed to me when you spoke of stealing three thousand dollars, with the Maxwell millions waiting. You thought you could do it, but you never could never."

"Perhaps I couldn't," the man said, brokenly. "I meant to-I don't know what stopped me."

"The Lord," Harding answered, tersely. "It isn't the first time He has made children His messengers."

"I-I used to believe those things," said Maxwell. "I'd like to now. I've been a long way down. But I've never liked it. I've been unhappy. It doesn't seem possible that I'm to have a chance. I can't believe I've been faced about-in a minute."

"My lad, it appears to me that going into wrong-doing is like going into a tunnel that leads downhill to darkness. At every step the walking gets harder, and the air gets worse, and it's dirtier, and more uninteresting. And all the time all you have to do is to face about, and you see the sunlight. Of course it's not simple getting back -I know that. Sure as fate you'll bark your shins, and stagger into holes, and fall down and maybe get discouraged. But Heavens, man! what's that, when you see daylight and see you're getting to it! You have swung about, and sunshine and friends are waiting for you a clean life-a man's work-a place in the world." The worn man whose inspired eyes burned him, who stood for force beyond either of them, had poured strength and will into Maxwell. He threw out his arms, drew a quick breath, and rose to his feet resolutely. "Lord helping me, I'll do it," he said.

To make the most of dull hours, to make the best of dull people, to like a poor jest better than none, to wear the threadbare coat like a gentleman, to be out-voted with a smile, to hitch your wagon to the old horse if no star is handy-that is wholesome philosophy.— Bliss Perry.

Failure

BY THEODOSIA GARRISON.

From the "Joy o' Life."

Oh, long and dark the stairs I trod
With stumbling feet to find my God.

Gaining a foothold bit by bit,
Then slipping back and losing it.

Never progressing, striving still

With weakening grasp and fainting will.

Bleeding to climb to God, while He
Serenely smiled, unnoting me.

Then came a certain time when I
Loosened my hold and fell thereby.

Down to the lowest step my fall
As though I had not climbed at all.

And while I lay despairing there,
Listen, a footfall on the stair!

In the same path where I, dismayed,
Faltered and fell and lay afraid.

And lo! when hope had ceased to be,
My God came down the stairs to me

In what we meditate of evil, frustrate our will; in what of good, further our endeavors. Cause injuries to be forgot and benefits to be remembered.-Robert Louis Stevenson, "Evening Prayer."

Tonio

BY THEODOSIA GARRISON.

From the "Joy o' Life."

I played all day-the other children worked Hard in the vineyard, and my father said, "Hungry to-night shall 'Tonio go to bed!"

And scolded. Where I hid I heard his words And laughed and ran; the leaves were gold and red And the wind whirled them through the woods like birds.

All day I played-the sun and wind and I;
Between the trees and up and down the hill;
And the noon came and it was still, so still;

And I stretched out full-length upon the grass
And watched the clouds like white sails reach and fill
And catch the sun for freight, and drift and pass.

I played all day. Oh, it was good to think
How hard my brothers worked while I went free.
"Hungry to-night goes 'Tonio," so said he;

But I danced on the hilltop with the moon,
A great red moon that came up merrily
And called the wind to pipe us both a tune.

"Hungry to-night shall 'Tonio go to bed!"
Ah, well, to-morrow I shall work and eat
And go to bed with aching hands and feet,
And sleep as oxen sleep that plow all day;
To-night I shall sleep hungry but dream sweet-
I wish that I could always starve and play.

The inner side of every cloud is bright and shining. I therefore turn my clouds about

And always wear them inside out

To show the lining.

-Ellen Thorneycroft Fowler.

His New Suit

BY S. E. KISER.

I remember well the way

She looked up at me that day
When first I put on the gray,
And said good-bye, back there in '63.
She and I were sweethearts then,
And I hear her voice again
As she nestled up to me,
Saying in her gentle way:

"Ah, how brave you look in gray,
And how tall and handsome, too—
Gray's the color, dear, for you!"

There's a ragged suit of gray
She has long had laid away-

There are memories that cling around it, too;
But the years have come and gone,

And at present I have on

A suit of Uncle Sam's beloved blue.

When she saw me yesterday,

She wiped a tear away

For the memory of the gray,

That dear, old, ragged suit of '63.

And she sweetly spoke again

Spoke more fervently than then,
As she nestled up to me,
Saying, in her gentle way:

"As, how brave you looked in gray!
But you're braver still in blue-
Blue's the color, dear, for you!"

No one thing does human life more need than a kind consideration of the faults of others. Everyone sins; everyone needs forbearance. Our own imperfections should teach us to be merciful.-Henry Ward Beecher.

Irish Names

BY JOHN LUDLOW.

Names wid the musical lilt of a troll to thim,
Names wid a rollickin' swing an' a roll to thim,
Names wid a body, an' bones an' a soul to thim-
Shure an' they're poethry, darlint asthore!

Names wid the smell o' the praties an' wheat to thim, Names wid the odor o' dillisk an' peat to thim,

Names wid a lump o' the turf hangin' sweet to thimWhere can yez bate thim, the whole wurruld o'er?

Brannigan, Flannigan, Milligan, Gilligan,
Duffy, McDuffy, Mullarky, Malone,
Rafferty, Lafferty, Connelly, Donnelly,
Dooley, O'Hooley, Muldowny, Malone;
Maddigan, Caddigan, Hallahan, Callahan,
Fagan, O'Hagan, O'Houlihan, Flynn,
Shanahan, Lanahan, Fogarty, Hogarty,
Kelly, O'Skelly, McGinnis, McGinn,

Names wid a fine old Hibernian sheen to thim,

Names wid the dewy shamrocks clingin' green to thim, Names wid a whiff of the honest potheen to thimShure, an' they're beautiful, darlint asthore!

Names wid the taste o' the salt o' the earth to thim, Names wid the warmth o' the ancisthral hearth to thim, Names wid the blood o' the land o' their birth to thim— Where can yez bate them, the whole wurruld o'er?

God doth not need

Either man's work, or his own gifts: who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve Him best: His state

Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed

And post o'er land and ocean without rest:

They also serve who only stand and wait.-John Milton, "Sonnet on his Blindness."