to the wall; she looked long at him, left the room, listened to his breathing, she did not know why, then went down stairs. That night the angels of God came for Lazarus. He went away noiselessly, humbly. In what a rapture of bliss, Eternity will tell us. HEAVEN'S HARVEST-HOME. BY AMELIA E. BARR. In the happy harvest fields, oh, what gladsome singing! Men and maids and children joining in the strain, For in merry triumph they are homeward bringing, Poppy-wreathed and loaded high, the last harvest wain. "Over now the sowing and the reaping, In a silent upper room a sad household kneeling, As the waiting angels guard well the dying bed. Waiting till some mighty word is spoken; Waiting, with some marvelous sweet token, Till, amid the praying and the weeping, Breaks the harvest song of Death's great reaping The spirit's harvest-home. Weeping mortals only heard, just a gentle sighing, Just a flutter, as of wings, stir the still warm air Only heard a whisper, "Pray, for she is dying;' Only heard the broken words of that parting prayer. But the angels heard a mighty singing, Heard it through the endless spaces ringing, THE HEROINE OF A FISHING VILLAGE. BY JAMES RUNCIMAN. Until she was nineteen years old, Dorothy lived a very uneventful life; for one week was much the same as another, in the placid existence of the village. On Sunday mornings, when the church bells. began to ring, you would meet her walking over the moor, with a springy step. Her shawl was gay, and her dress was of the most pronounced color that could be bought in the market town. Her brown hair was gathered into a net, and her calm eyes looked from under an old-fashioned bonnet of straw. Her feet were always bare, but she carried her shoes and stockings slung over her shoulders. When she got near the church, she sat down in the shade of a hedge, and put them on; then she walked the rest of the distance in a cramped and civilized gait. On the Monday mornings early, she carried the water from the well. Her great "skeel" was poised easily on her head; and as she strode along,-singing lightly without shaking a drop of water over the edge of her pail, you could see how she had come by her erect carriage. When the boats came in, she went to the beach, and helped to carry the baskets of fish to the cart. She was then dressed in a sort of thick flannel blouse, and a singular quantity of brief petticoats. Her head was bare, and she looked far better than in her Sunday clothes. If the morning were fine, she sat in the sun, and baited the lines; all the while lilting old-country songs in her guttural dialect. In the evening, she would spend some time chatting with other lasses in the Row; but she never had a very long spell of that pastime, for she had to be at work, winter and summer, by about five or six in the morning. The fisherfolk do not waste many candles, by keeping late hours. She was very healthy and powerful; very ignorant, and very modest. Had she lived by one of the big harbors, where fleets of boats come in, she might have been as rough and brazen as the girls often are in those places. But in her secluded little village, the ways of the people were oldfashioned and decorous; and girls were very restrained in their manners. No one would have taken her to be anything more than an ordinary country girl, had not a chance enabled her to show herself full of bravery and resource. Every boat in the village went away north one evening, and not a man re mained in the Row, excepting three very old fellows, who were long past work of any kind. When a fisherman grows helpless with age, he is kept by his own people; and his days are passed in quietly smoking on the kitchen settle, or in looking dimly out over the sea from the bench at the door. But a man must be sorely "failed" before he is reduced to idleness, and able to do nothing that needs strength. A southerly gale, with a southerly sea, came away in the night, and the boats could not beat down from the northward. By daylight, they were all safe in a harbor about eighteen miles north of the village. The sea grew worse and worse, till the usual clouds of foam flew against the houses, or skimmed away into the fields beyond. When the wind reached its height, the sounds it made in the hollows were like distant firing of small-arms; and the waves in the hollow rocks seemed to shake the ground over the cliffs. A little schooner came round the point, running before the sea. She might have got clear away, had she clawed a short way out, risking the beam sea, to have made the harbor where the fishers were. But the skipper kept her close in; and presently she struck on a long tongue of rocks, that trended far out eastward. The tops of her masts seemed nearly to meet; so it ap |