hope you like your presents, and that you will spend a merry Christmas and have a happy new year."

The children were rather shy about their thanks, but managed to get out between them that they were very much obliged, and hoped the lady would have a merry Christmas; which being about as much as they could manage, the "new year" was left to take care of itself; and off they scampered as fast as their little feet would carry them, or the crowd of passing people permit.

They tore breathless down their own mews, up the little narrow carpetless staircase, and into the kitchen, where their father and mother were sitting, having just finished dinner.

'What makes you so late?" they began, but the children with one voice, cried, "Mother, mother!" and held up their different parcels.

Polly's boots were first exhibited and admired, then came Penny's beautiful box of bright bon-bons. "Well, I never!" said Mrs. Betts.

"Give us a taste, Pen," said her father. Penny, all important, handed her box round to each in turn, and then such a tasting and nodding of heads went on, that Polly felt a pang of disappointment and envy of her sister's more taking present; she looked rather doubtfully at the little black boots standing on the table.

'Never mind, Polly," said her father, "you chose the most useful present."

After this, Polly cheered up a little, and their father went off on his Hansom, and then they helped their mother in all kinds of little ways until teatime, when Penny took another peep at her box, and after another taste or two of its contents, sho decided upon making up one or two little parcels of the prettiest, biggest sweets, to give her friends for Christmas presents.

Penny and Polly then began to play a game which required a good many sweets, and by-and-by there were only four sweets left.

"Let's put one for father and one for mother on the mantelpiece." It was done, and there remained two sweets in the box.

“Well, we may as well finish it up, and then there will be no bother," said Penny, and immediately she helped herself to one of them, and handed the other, which was a good deal bigger, to Polly. Polly took it, and the pretty and somewhat stained box, was empty!

The little strong boots stood sturdily upon the table, and Penny and Polly looked at them; and over both children came a feeling that Polly had been the wisest. "Well, Penny, how are you getting on with your sweets?" inquired Mrs. Betts, when bedtime for the "I dare say the box is pretty near

twins came.

empty now." 'Quite empty, mother," said Penny with a sigh; "but we've put two for father and you on the mantelpiece."

255

"Well, you haven't been long about it, I must say," said their mother, tucking them up.

"Ah, well! it was very nice, and don't you think mother, little Ben and the rest will be pleased when they open their packets ?"

"To be sure they will."

And very soon the children were ast asleep, and the mother still very busy with her preparations for the next day, which was Christmas. She had a little piece of holly, which she broke up, and stuck a little bit here and a little bit there, and all the time the snow was falling silently without.

She worked on in silence, and the children slept soundly. All at once she heard a strange sound in the mews under her window, the peculiar muffled sound of many footsteps in the snow; there was a knock at the door, and Mrs. Betts ran hastily downstairs to see who the unexpected visitor could be.

On opening the door she started back in affright. Several men were bearing a shutter, on which was laid her husband.

"Don't be alarmed, missus," said one man, "he has only broken his arm, and shook hisself a bit. Which is the way?"

“This way—this way, oh! make haste, pray”

And the men stumbled up the little narrow staircase, while Mr. Betts groaned on the shutter. Luckily, a doctor was with them, who had seen the accident and followed to help.

With his help Mr. Betts soon had his arm carefully set, which relieved him very much, and he lay back and listened while the doctor was telling Mrs. Betts how the accident had happened.

He had been driving his Hansom down Oxford Street, when one of the wheels came off, and poor Mr. Betts was thrown with great violence into the road, where it was a mercy he had not been run over; luckily, only his arm had been broken, besides several severe bruises, and he had begged to bo brought home, instead of being carried to the hospital.

The noise of the men passing through the kitchen, and their father crying out in pain, had roused the children, and with great astonishment they sat up in bed and wondered what was the matter.

Your father has broken his arm," said one of the men, leaving the children more bewildered than ever; but presently everything became quieter in the next room, and the children fell asleep just as the waits were beginning to play.

Christmas morning! Not only Christmas morning in the large squares and grand houses; but Christmas morning in the narrow mews, and Christmas morning to Penny and Polly.

1 The children woke up with an idea that something had happened and gone wrong, or that they had had a bad dream. Soon, however, they learned from their mother that poor father was ill with a broken arm, and again and again they listened

It was a melancholy Christmas Day, mother so busy that she had scarcely time to cook the dinner, and father too ill to think about playing with them the romping games he generally did on Christmas Day. Altogether, things were different and dismal, and it wasn't even so nice as an everyday schoolday, as Penny remarked.

Their father's arm was badly broken and took a very, very long time to get well, and the doctor's visits ran away with so much money, that when the holidays were over their mother told Penny and Polly that she could not afford to send them to school again, and that they must stay at home and help her until father's arm got well again.

This was a great disappointment, for they were very fond of their school, where they had so many kind friends and merry companions. Still their father's arm did not get well, partly, the doctor thought, on account of the severe cold and hard frost which had set in.

"Mother, will you buy me a pair of new boots ?" said Penny one day; these are so very old, they are scarcely any use."

"I can't afford it, Penny; it is as much as we can do to live at all," said her mother.

After this Polly was always the one sent on errands and messages, and very seldom Penny stirred from the house, but when she did, her feet became so intensely cold from the snow which the boots could not keep out, that when she came home she would rush to the fire and try to get some warmth into her toes. In consequence of this she had three or four very bad chilblains on her feet, which broke and became very painful, just as her father's arm began to get better.

At length Mr. Betts's arm got well enough to allow him to go out again with his Hansom, which had been mended; and things began to look up in the humble little home once more, and Polly was sent to school again, but poor Penny's toes were so bad that for a whole month she had to stay at home.

One day, when Polly was at school, Penny discovered on the mantelpiece two forgotten sweets, which had been placed there on Christmas Eve for father and mother. This sight reminded her of their Christmas presents, and of the one she had chosen, and bursting into tears, she said, "Oh, mother, I do wish I had chosen a pair of boots like Polly, and then I should have been at school now."

While she was speaking Polly came running up the little staircase home from school, but with a very flushed face. Close behind her, footsteps were heard coming up. "Mother! mother!" she cried,-" here's the lady from school come: the lady that gave us our presents at Christmas."

Mrs. Betts curtseyed to her, and then the lady went up to Penny, saying, "Well, Penny, I have missed

about your chilblains; I suppose you couldn't get on any boots at all now?”

"No, ma'am. Mother got me a pair yesterday, but they hurt my feet so that I cannot keep them on."

"Then I suppose you wished you had chosen a pair of boots for your Christmas present ?"

"Ye-es, ma'am." And poor little Penny's voice was trembling very much.

"Never mind, Penny," said the lady; "it may have been a little mistake, and you will know better in future; but you felt in what you chose what Polly did not-the blessedness of giving. I will send you a pair of boots this evening which will not hurt your feet." And then, after having the whole story of Mr. Betts's illness related to her, the lady departed, leaving Penny very happy.

That evening came a footman to the little house in the mews. He left there a parcel, which Mrs. Betts carefully unfastened with one of the children on each side of her.

Inside the parcel was discovered, first of all, a soft, neat little pair of felt boots, directed "Penny," and secondly, a little round box of bonbons, directed "Polly."

Polly danced about for joy, and so did Penny, almost forgetful of her chilblains and tender feet, and they went to bed feeling they had nothing left to wish for.

The very next morning Penny, in her felt boots, walked bravely to school, with Polly offering her bonbons beside her. And although her feet were soon quite well, she has never forgotten those Christmas presents, and her little mistake. J. H.

He thought she would die. He heard her feeble voice; for the door of the room was open... And then he heard Reuben. Every note of Reuben's voice struck a separate terror into the mind of Sidney.

Reuben was reading to her-verses from the Bible. There was something very solemn in the sound. It arrested even the frivolous, worldly, volatile spirit of Sidney Peters.

He stood and listened. Dangerous as the spot was-for Reuben might find him at any moment-he could not force himself away; not until the reading was over, and there were movements and footsteps that made him hastily retreat.

What had he done? Committed a crime almost as black as murder! The girl was sound in health, and full of hope and happiness a short time ago. Now it went to his very heart to think of what she was. He knew they were poor. This man-this Reuben whom he so feared, and whom he tried to keep in the dark-was a hard-working curate, living on a scanty stipend. Amy had come to be dependent on him. He saw it all clearly-the straitened means, the sickness, the forced journey, the forlorn hope. He saw it all-the whole array of griefs and trials and privations, clear and distinct, lay before him.

He had laughed at broken hearts, and disbelieved in their existence. That soft white hand of his, so caressing and yet so cruel, had taken a bauble to play with and to beguile a passing hour, the bauble was the poor crushed heart of Amy!

Oh, he had been very vile! He thought so, as he stood within the shelter of his room, and where Reuben could not come across him. His conscience, usually so lethargic, woke up, and lashed him with a whip of scorpions.

All other phases of his existence-the late blissful hours passed with Adela, his love for Adela, the hopes he had built upon her, his disappointment, his future uncertain career-all vanished from his mind.

This little episode, taking place in a corner of the busy, noisy world, unseen and unknown of most men, riveted his attention. It was full of the deepest and most tragic interest.

Hark! and his face turns white, and every nerve trembles. Hark! that step is Reuben's!

Shall he speak to him? Shall he take one step from this place of horrors ?-one step nearer to his Father's house, from which he has wandered?

If he does, it must be now. The opportunity let slip, may never be reclaimed. It will be very dreadful! It will be like coming face to face with the avenger-this meeting with Reuben Howard! He rose up. You would hardly have known the gay, gallant Sidney Peters. He moved to the door, trembling, shrinking, and abject.

Reuben was coming. Another instant, and he must meet with him. Should he flee away? The world is wide; he might easily escape. He never need hear again of Amy!

But no! He must do something. His heart has never been so touched before. That crust of adamant is broken up. He is full of the bitterest remorse. He is in an agony to think of what he has done.

Reuben is in the passage. He is stopping to speak to the woman of the house. He is telling her to take care of Amy while he is away.

Sidney stood in the doorway, his hands clasped, his head bowed, his eyes cast down. He had become very humble. He could have lain in the dust at Reuben's feet.

The slight conversation had passed. On came the footsteps, rather quicker than before. All at once they stopped. Yes; the moment had come. Reuben had seen Sidney Peters!

Human nature is strong even in the purified breast of the Christian, This man, so mortified to the world, with every passion curbed and bridled, yet looked as if some fury had possessed him. He stood a moment speechless. Then, raising his hand to heaven with a gesture as though he would call down vengeance, "O God!” cried he, in the bitterness of his soul, "what forbids it that justice should not strike this man dead!”

Sidney shook in every limb. Was he, then, entirely condemned ?-cast out beyond the reach of forgiveness?

Did Heaven's own minister, the minister of love and reconciliation, pass him by as too vile for mercy? for Reuben, with those dreadful words on his lips, was gone.

Oh, it was very terrible to feel this guilt or his conscience! It was too late, then, for restitution? There came dimly across his mind some early readings of a Book he had neglected for years. Of those who knocked at the door, and found it closed, to open not again.

Had he not heard somewhere of a day of grace which was passed? Of a period spoken of as too late!

The man so full of resources-the subtle tempter, the gay flutterer in the scenes of folly—is on his knees.

Bitter is the groan he utters. "Too late! too late!"

The touch is kind

A hand is laid on his shoulder. and conciliatory. Reuben has come again. Not in anger. Oh, no! that has passed. The fury was not ungovernable. It raged a moment, and was then suppressed and repented of.

Who is he that, in his human infirmity, he should pass the sinner by ? Is it not his office, without exception or partiality, to win souls to God?

It might seem hard to return; to stand by the man who had wronged him, and address him as a brother. If he had let his mind dwell on the fading form of Amy, it would have been harder still.

But the rather he strove to fix his eyes on One who is our great Pattern and Exemplar: and with the