"I said I would never rest till I'd seen the old gentleman again; and I won't."

"You don't mean my grandfather ?"

“I mean him that showed us the globe.”

Matilda was walking quickly on before us, towards home; when she had finished reading, she turned and faced us for a moment, to ask some questions about her letter; I observed that her face was deeply flushed, but she did not speak again, excepting to beg that we would quicken our pace, as the air was getting cold for the baby.

The beggar girl limped after us, and observing that something unusual was the matter with Matilda, I supposed it was the sight of this poor creature's misery; nevertheless, when we got into the nursery, and my mother who was there had taken the baby in her arms, I was astonished to see our usually cheerful nurse, without saying a word, sit down in the rocking-chair, and begin to cry as if her heart would break; while one of the little ones, after regarding her for a minute or two with fixed attention, ran up to her, hid her face in Matilda's lap, and burst into a chorus of sobs.

"What is the meaning of this, my dear ?" said my mother

to me.

"O, mamma, it's about that poor beggar girl, I answered; she has no place but a barn to sleep in, and she has had only some turnips to eat to-day, which she picked out of a sheep trough; and O, mamma, she's nearly starved."

"Well, don't cry, my dear child-don't cry so; something shall be done directly."

"No, ma'am, no;" said Matilda, struggling with her sobs, "I'm very sorry for the poor soul; but, ma'am, I've got a letter."

"What letter? is there bad news Matilda ?"

Poor Matilda took the letter from under her shawl, and gave it to my mother. After her passion of tears, she was quite calm, and began to mend the fire and undress the children, with a kind of nervous industry.

"I am very sorry for this news," said my mother gravely. "Poor Joe! but as he is invalided, Matilda, he will of course come home, if his life is spared, and the voyage may do great things for him.”

"But he has been wounded, ma'am," said Matilda, sobbing. "Yes, I see, this letter appears to have been written by one of his comrades, and is addressed to his father; did old Grattan

give it you.

"No, mamma;" I answered, "but the beggar girl brought it to her on the common."

"And," proceeded my mother, "the postscript is by Joe himself. Did you look at the date, Matilda ?"

"No ma'am," sobbed Matilda; "I had enough to do to read the thing itself; to think we should have been promised so long, and I should never see him again. He says, he's so much changed, that he's sure I should'nt know him, and he wishes me to know it; but he'll never come home again, poor fellow! Oh, war's a wicked cruel thing!"

"Ah, Matilda, this brings one of its evils home to you; but now, try to listen to me. You did not observe the date of this, but I wonder the beginning did not strike you; he says, 'I have no paper here but the end of this leter, so I have sent it on to you, and it will tell you all.' It is dated to-day-this very morning, Matilda: you know his hand writing; therefore he must be already come home." My mother said this slowly and quietly, while Matilda's eyes dilated with hope and wonder.

"Now, you may take the baby," she continued, "and I will question this poor girl; if Joe be really come home, she has probably seen him.”

My kind mother went down stairs, and shortly returned with a smile in her eyes. "Well Matilda," she said, "you have suffered a great deal of needless anxiety; Joe is at his father's cottage, and old Mrs. Grattan told the girl, he was tolerably well, but a good deal altered by a scar on his forehead. He was anxious you should know this, but I suppose, Matilda, that such a thing as that would not part such old friends?" My mother paused, while Matilda's eyes overflowed with happy tears-"So," she continued, "I sent word to old Grattan's cottage, that Joe might come and see you to-night; and you shall drink tea with him in the kitchen." ORRIS.

(To be concluded next month.)

WHAT IS "LIFE IN EARNEST."

(Concluded from page 124.)

Two or three days after the circumstances detailed in our last chapter, Mr. Harvey called again at the Harrington's. The family were at tea. Mrs. Harrington was reading to her husband, and while Alice presided at the tea-table, Henry for once threw his books on one side, and with some animation watched her movements, while he told her a story of one of his college friends.

"I scarcely like to break in upon such a cheerful group,” said Mr. Harvey, dropping into his accustomed chair, “upon the theory of 'Let well alone.'”

"You're a very welcome break," was the unanimous feeling, though Mrs. Harrington only gave utterance to it.

"I wish, Harry, you would give me an hour to-morrow,” said Mr. Harvey suddenly, after a lively discussion on different topics.

Henry's countenance changed. "I cannot, really," he said, "my time is so completely occupied." But suddenly the recollection that to-morrow was Sunday flashed upon him, and he added, “Oh! to be sure-I had forgotten; the days go so fast.” They do, indeed," said Mr. Harrington. "How well I can recollect you, Harvey, a babe in arms; and then again an active lad at school."

"Active for mischief, nothing else, I'm afraid," was the answer, "I was a sad idle fellow."

"Well, sir," exclaimed Henry, "give us some of your early experience, perhaps some of us will profit by the account," giving a sly glance at Alice.

"I can't imagine an idle deed,” said Alice, “I thought idleness meant doing nothing; but there are so many new doctrines now, I really-"

"You really puzzle your young brains with so many theories, that you forget to put any of them into practice. Is that what you mean?" said Mr. Harvey smiling. He then turned from the young people, and brought the accounts of some society out of his pocket, which he and Mr. Harrington commenced discussing; while Alice poured out another cup of tea, and cut a slice from the rich cake on the table, and put it on his plate.

"Do taste this, Mr. Harvey, it's so nice, I made it, and you like Scotch cake I know."

"Thank you," was the answer.

"But in regard, Mr. Har

rington, to the deficiency in the balance, it seems to me that Brown has made some important mistake in appropriating the reserve fund."

"How far must we go back to see where the deficiency is?" said Mr. Harrington.

"Three years.

It is a great pity Brown undertook to be treasurer if his heart were not in the work."

"Yes, much better leave things alone altogether, than do them in a slovenly, careless spirit.”

"And now," said Mr. Harvey, "everything is in confusion, and my time is more than occupied, I cannot attend to it after to-night."

"Of course not, of course not," said Mr. Harrington; "when must you send up the report ?"

"Next Tuesday."

"Oh! then," interrupted Alice, "please put it away for a little while, and taste my cake, and I'll help with the accounts afterwards-I will indeed."

"Don't interrupt, my dear," said Mr. Harrington, while he and his guest proceeded with their work. Henry again brought his books to the table, and Mrs. Harrington sat in silence.

Alice fidgetted about, clattered the tea tray, moved her chair, played with the sugar tongs, and finally exclaimed in a pettish voice--

"Oh! my dear рара, do let us have our tea in peace.

It's so

melancholy to see those figures, and to hear the addings up;" and she sighed deeply.

Mr. Harvey looked up with his pleasantest smile. "Alice it is rude of us to spoil the 'dolce far niente' of the evening in this way. How delicious your tea is; mine has never the same flavor. Can you give me a receipt Mrs. Harrington, or is the craft of tea-making only to be attained by ladies." "Oh yes! mamma, do initiate Mr. Harvey," cried Alice restored to good humour, as if by magic. "There is a time for everything, and I'm sure tea-time is conversation."

meant for a little

"It seems to me," said Henry, laughing, "that Alice's notion of conversation is a little desultory chat about cakes and crochet, and a number of anxious questions as to the why and wherefore of any body else, finding pleasure in graver topics."

“I think you are quite right, Alice, in saying there is a time for everything," said Mr. Harvey, "but your mistake is this, there is a time for everything, if each took his or her due share of labor; but as some have to do other's work as well as their own, it naturally follows that the rest have time for everything, and a great deal on their hands, besides."

"Very true," said Mr. Harrington "very true,"

"I think you refer to me," said Alice-timidly, "I dare say when I'm grown up I shall-"

"No indeed I do not: so don't be uncomfortable. Your present duty," said Mr. Harvey, laughing, “is to cut me a slice of cake, and pour me out another cup of tea. Let us see if we cannot make the division of labor equal to night."

Alice was happy again; she fetched the cake to her side of the table, turning it round and round, and finally selecting that side which had the most sweetmeats; she with the pride, natural to so young a confectioner, watched him narrowly as it gradually disappeared, while her own tea and her father's and mother's empty cups remained totally disregarded in the tray. Henry had twice asked her to pass the sugar, before she paid any attention.

"Come Alice," he said at last, quite impatiently. "Have you put all the sugar out of the kousekeeping, into the cake, that we are not to have any in our tea ?"

When tea was over, (and it did not last half long enough to please Alice,) Mr. Harvey again took out his books, while at the same time he passed one over to her, saying, "Now for the division of labor! Do put that page into training for me."

Mrs. Harrington smiled, she liked to see Alice employed, and so well.

"I was going to ask you, Henry, whether you could assist in my school to-morrow-the Sunday school ?" said Mr. Harvey, "I know how busy you are on the week-day."

Henry looked up, a little chagrined,-" I'm sure I should be most happy, if I felt myself a good superintendent, but certainly