On leaving the school, Geoffrey went to the tranter's. Old William opened the door.

"Is your grandson Dick in 'ithin, William?"

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"No, not just now, Geoffrey. Though he've been at home a good deal lately."

"Oh, how's that?"

"What wi' one thing, and what wi' t'other, he's all in a mope, as m't be said. Don't seem the feller 'a used to. Ay, 'a will sit studding and thinking as if 'a were going to turn chapel member, and then 'a don't do nothing but traypsing and wambling about. Used to be such a chatty feller, too, Dick did; and now 'a don't spak at all. But won't ye step inside? Reuben will be home soon, 'a b'lieve."

"No, thank you, I can't stay now. Will ye just ask Dick if he'll do me the kindness to stap over to Yalbury to-morrow with my da'ter Fancy, if she's well enough? I don't like her to come by herself, now she's not so terrible topping in health."

"So I've heard. Ay, sure, I'll tell en without fail."

A PARABLE.

BY JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

[JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL: An American poet, critic, and scholar; born in Cambridge, Mass., February 22, 1819; died there August 12, 1891. He graduated at Harvard (1838), and was admitted to the bar (1841), but soon abandoned the legal profession for literature. In 1855 he succeeded Longfellow as professor of modern languages at Harvard; was editor of the Atlantic Monthly (1857-1862), and of the North American Review (1863-1872) with C. E. Norton; United States minister to Spain (1877-1880), and to Great Britain (1880-1885). His chief poetical works are: "A Year's Life" (1841), "The Vision of Sir Launfal," "The Biglow Papers," "Commemoration Ode," "Under the Willows," "The Cathedral," "Heartsease and Rue." In prose he published: "Conversations on Some of the Old Poets," "Fireside Travels," "Among my Books," "My Study Windows," "Democracy," and "Political Essays."]

WORN and footsore was the Prophet,
When he gained the holy hill;
"God has left the earth," he murmured,
"Here his presence lingers still.

"God of all the olden prophets,
Wilt thou speak with men no more?
Have I not as truly served thee,
As thy chosen ones of yore?

"Hear me, guider of my fathers,
Lo! a humble heart is mine;
By thy mercy I beseech thee,
Grant thy servant but a sign!"

Bowing then his head, he listened
For an answer to his prayer;
No loud burst of thunder followed,
Not a murmur stirred the air:

But the tuft of moss before him
Opened while he waited yet,

And, from out the rock's hard bosom,
Sprang a tender violet.

"God! I thank thee," said the Prophet: "Hard of heart and blind was I,

Looking to the holy mountain

For the gift of prophecy.

"Still thou speakest with thy children Freely as in eld sublime; Humbleness, and love, and patience,

Still give empire over time.

"Had I trusted in my nature,

And had faith in lowly things,

Thou thyself wouldst then have sought me And set free my spirit's wings.

"But I looked for signs and wonders,
That o'er men should give me sway,

Thirsting to be more than mortal,
I was even less than clay.

"Ere I entered on my journey,
As I girt my loins to start,
Ran to me my little daughter,
The beloved of my heart;

THE NEW YORK PUBLIC LIBRARY

ASTOR, LENOX, AND TILDEN FOUNDATIONS

R

"In her hand she held a flower,
Like to this as like may be,
Which, beside my very threshold,
She had plucked and brought to me."

FROM "THE LAMPLIGHTER."

BY MARIA S. CUMMINS.

[MARIA SUSANNA CUMMINS: An American novelist; born at Salem, Mass., April 9, 1827; died at Dorchester, Mass., October 1, 1866. She is chiefly remembered as the author of the once popular novel "The Lamplighter" (1853), of which seventy thousand copies were sold in the first year of publication. Later works are "Mabel Vaughan" and "Haunted Hearts."]

I.

It was growing dark in the city. Out in the open country it would be light for half an hour or more; but within the close streets where my story leads me it was already dusk. Upon the wooden doorstep of a low-roofed, dark, and unwholesome-looking house, sat a little girl, who was gazing up the street with much earnestness. The house door, which was open behind her, was close to the sidewalk; and the step on which she sat was so low that her little unshod feet rested on the cold bricks. It was a chilly evening in November, and a light fall of snow, which had made everything look bright and clean in the pleasant open squares, near which the fine houses of the city were built, had only served to render the narrow streets and dark lanes dirtier and more cheerless than ever; for, mixed with the mud and filth which abound in those neighborhoods where the poor are crowded together, the beautiful snow had lost all its purity.

A great many people were passing to and fro, bent on their various errands of duty or of pleasure; but no one noticed the little girl, for there was no one in the world who cared for her. She was scantily clad, in garments of the poorest description. Her hair was long and very thick; uncombed and unbecoming, if anything could be said to be unbecoming to a set of features which, to a casual observer, had not a single attraction,- being thin and sharp, while her complexion was sallow, and her whole appearance unhealthy.

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