of dependence; but even such poor progress in the task of well-doing, soon exhausted the feeble resolution of the unrepentant and miserable man, who plunged deeper than ever into vicious courses and evil company, and before the sods were grown together upon his wife's grave, he brought into his house, a coarse unprincipled woman, to be the stepmother of her orphan child, and drove his aged parent forth from his inhospitable door, to seek shelter in the parish workhouse.

Bitterly-bitterly did poor little Amy weep and sob, as she led her dear grandfather by the hand to that comfortless home; and very hard she felt it, to promise him, as he required, that she would still be good and dutiful to her father, and even do her best to please and content the hard woman, who was set over her, in the place of her own gentle mother. But she did promise all this, because her dear grandfather said it would comfort him for all his troubles, and make him happy, even in the workhouse. And when the old man lifted her up to bless and kiss her, as they parted at the door of the dark, gloomy building, and bade her remember, and do all that she had engaged to do, for his sakeand for the sake of her dear dead mother, and, above all, for God's sake; the loving child burst

into an agony of tears, and sobbed out, in her almost inarticulate distress, "I will! I will, grandfather!—only be happy."

And well did Amy Ross keep the promise exacted from her at that cruel moment-and very patiently did the meek and timid child submit to the heavy yoke that was laid upon her by her harsh stepmother, and to the increasing severity with which she was treated by her father, whose brutal temper, often aggravated to frenzy by the malicious tongue of his new helpmate, too frequently vented itself in blows and curses on his unoffending child. But never did a hasty word, or a sullen murmur, or so much as a reproachful look escape her, even when she was tried to the uttermost,-and, at last, when her step-mother was afflicted with tedious illness, after her little baby was born, Amy proved such a tender and careful nurse, and shewed such love and kindness towards the little helpless infant, her halfsister, that the heart of its mother was touched with some relentings of gratitude and affection towards the forgiving child, who thus repaid good for evil; and from that time forward Amy's home became a less unhappy one, and she was treated with comparative kindness and occasional indulgence.

longed-the only favour she ever had it at heart to obtain, was that of being allowed, when she had worked cheerfully all day, at various tasks, to steal away for an hour in the evening, down to the gloomy workhouse, to clasp her arms round the neck of her dear grandfather—to kiss him, and ask his blessing, after she had whispered in his ear, that she had done her best "to give content at home;"—and if the weather was warm and pleasant, to lead out the old man to his favourite walk in the avenue that led to Hartly-farm; or to that sheltered restingplace, on the green daisy-covered bank, where you have just seen him seated, with his little affectionate companion.

And very often Amy brings her Bible to that pleasant spot, and reads a chapter from it to the old blind man, to whose ear, even the words of life sound sweeter from the innocent lips of his duteous Amy. And, this evening, she has been repeating to him a little hymn, which she has lately learned from a book given to her by a kind lady,—“ The Little Villager's Hymn Book." Amy's eyes fill with tears, and her voice trembles a little, as she repeats that pretty hymn,—for it is one about "a child and a blind grandfather,"-and the old man's sightless eye-balls are glistening also, as he listens to that

youthful voice, and those affecting words. when Amy comes to the last verse

"Think no more of them, aged man!

For HERE thou hast no friend;"

But,

she stops abruptly, at the end of those two first lines, and bursting into tears, hides her face in the old man's bosom, and murmurs in broken accents, "but you have me, dear grandfather!"—and clasping her still closer, Adam Hartly fervently exclaims : "Yes, I have thee; thee still, my precious child! Blessed be God for it-and he will bless thee, my Amy, for thy love and duty to thy old blind grandfather."

Was not Amy Ross, think you, a happy child that night? And though, when she went back to her father's cottage, dark looks frowned on her, and rough words reproached her long absence, and her supper was stinted to a crust of dry bread and a draught of cold water; yet think you not, that Amy Ross, having reverently said her accustomed prayer, lay down her head that night, on the hard pillow of her uncurtained bed, with a lighter and happier heart than beats in the bosom of many a little lady, indulged in all her capricious fancies, surfeited with dainties, and folded to rest on down pillows, under

THE LITTLE MARINER.

BY MRS. HOWITT.

I.

Ay! sitting on your happy hearths, beside your mother's knee,

How should you know the miseries and dangers of the sea!

My father was a mariner, and from my early years, I can remember night and day my mother's prayers and tears;

II.

And what a boding heart was hers, when blew the stormy gale;

And how, for days, she stood to catch the longexpected sail :

This was a silent, patient grief; but fears and long

delay,

And wakeful nights, and anxious days, were wearing her away.