sooner than she should have wanted anything."

He went on without taking any further notice of me. "Tell your mother, when you return home, that I think her very foolish and extravagant to go to the expense of mourning for you all. What is the use of it?"

"I shall not tell her anything to vex and make her cry," replied I, my heart bursting with indignation. "I am sure no one would wear mourning for you, if you were to die to-morrow." "Yes, you would," said Uncle Jabez, with a strange smile. "Don't you know that I am

very rich ?"

"I don't care whether you are rich or poor. I know that you have a very hard heart, or you would not have said what you did about our 'Sunshine.'

999

"A hard heart, have I?" repeated the old man, raising his stick.

"Yes," replied I, dauntlessly, "a very hard heart every one says so."

He stood over me for a moment, as if he would like to have beaten me, while his face worked convulsively; but he appeared to think better of it, and turning away, walked feebly

So feeble and

in the direction of his home. tottering were his steps, that I felt sorry for what I had said, and longed to run after him and tell him so, and that I hoped he would not die for many years to come, until God had taken away the heart of stone, and given him a heart of flesh, as he has promised to do to those who ask him. I wish I had now. I have wished it many times since. Once he turned back, and said, with the same strange smile, "Mark my words, John: you will be glad to wear mourning for me one of these days."

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'Very likely," replied I, with provoking indifference.

It was some time before I repeated the above conversation to my parents. The loss of little "Sunshine" was so fresh in my mother's heart that I knew it would only make her weep. When I did tell them at length, she rebuked me, with tears in her eyes, for having spoken as I did to Uncle Jabez, and talked to me in her own gentle way about the duty of the young to bear with the aged. I noticed that she did not say anything of honouring old age: perhaps she felt that we could not have honoured

C

Uncle Jabez; but we ought to have borne with and pitied him, nevertheless.

I told her that I was sorry now for having been so easily provoked, and saying what I did, and that the next time I met Uncle Jabez I would tell him so.

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Why not go to him ?" suggested my father. "But it happened so long ago," said I; "perhaps he has forgotten all about it."

"That is not likely," replied my father. "Remember, John, that it is never too late to do right."

"Very well," said I, "then I will go." My father smiled approvingly.

"Are you not afraid, John?" whispered my little sister Alice, who stood greatly in awe of this unknown uncle; as indeed we all did, more or less.

"Not I. He dare not touch me; although he did threaten me with his stick. But I am not going to vex him now-only to ask his pardon for having done so.'

"I want to see Uncle Jabez to-morrow," said my mother," and John can accompany me." It was a bright summer morning, and we started early to avoid the heat, which always

made me ill. My mother was unusually silent; at last she said, "I am sorry to make you walk so fast, John, but I am anxious to get back again as soon as possible on account of little Charley: I do not think that he is quite well."

"Walk as fast as you like," said I. "It does not hurt me in the least; it only takes away my breath so that I cannot talk much.”

"Then do not try," said my mother.

stand still a moIt was a larger

As I walked, or rather ran, by her side, it suddenly occurred to me that if I was not afraid of Uncle Jabez, she feared for me, and that she would never have gone out and left little Charley but for that. I was very glad when we came in sight of the old house where my uncle dwelt, and she bade me ment to recover my breath. house than ours, but sadly out of repair. The palings were much broken down, and the garden-gate swung to and fro for want of a hinge; while the garden itself was overgrown with long grass and weeds. The place altogether had a desolate and neglected appearance. The house door stood open, and I noticed that the passage and the stairs looked as if they had

not been cleaned for a very long time. In a

little room to the left sat my Uncle Jabez. He appeared to have been writing, but thrust the paper hastily aside as we entered.

"Well, niece," said he, turning to my mother, without taking any notice of me; "it is not often that I am honoured with a visit. Do you want anything?"

"No, thank you, uncle," was the gentle reply. "I would come to see you more frequently if I could, but you know how much I am engaged. But my little boy wants something, I believe."

The old man looked at me with a cold, searching glance. "I think," said he, "that this young gentleman and I have met before."

"Yes, uncle, and I want to tell you how sorry I am for having spoken so disrespectfully." "Have you only just thought of it?"

"No, Uncle Jabez, I thought of it at the time, and longed to run after you and say so. I wish I had now."

"And I remember longing at the time to give you a good thrashing for your impertinence. I wish I had now."

I looked at him in astonishment, thinking that he was only jesting.