had loved to lie for hours together, and Sally's heart felt sorrowful as she missed the wan wistful face that had been used to look up at her there. But her attention was the next moment caught by something else, for she saw some one with a bandbox in her hand, and a large bundle under her arm, approaching the cottage, but not from the Brookham side. It certainly was-yes-it must be her Mother.

With no feeble step, although so well loaded, she came along; but very soon her burden was lessened, for Sally was beside her, and had seized upon the bandbox-which really was no light weight-and begged in vain to be allowed to carry the bundle too.

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Mother, mother, how glad I am you are come back at last!" she cried out at first in the gladness of her heart. And then she walked on in silence beside her, for the thought of Johnny came over her, and how to tell that story she did not know.

Mrs. Barfoot was ooking so stout and well that you would hardly have known her again. The old straw bonnet with the ironed-out ribbon had disappeared, and she wore instead a black one, very neatly trimmed, and a quite handsome merino gown, which, with many things that were almost bursting the bottom of the bandbox, had been given her in her service. Her wages

had been so very good that she came home with a sum of money that seemed as if it would keep them from want all the winter. It was no wonder therefore, that her face was cheerful, and her step brisk. And Sally could give her very good news

of the baby too, for her cousin had taken great care of it, and Mrs. Fleetwell had seen it several times at Brookham, and brought word that it was thriving nicely.

But in the kitchen, where the slanting sunrays were still brightening the wall, lay Johnny, so altered, so wasted, and with such a look of death in his sunken eyes, that Mrs. Barfoot quite started when she saw him. Then came the story of his fall, which Sally told with simple truth, blaming herself for having been the cause of it, but not saying how well she had made amends for her fault by watching over him so carefully and steadily since, both by day and night. But her mother did not say one word of reproach. Though she had been shocked at first, she soon felt that it was in mercy that her little unfortunate child was to be taken from her; and when they sat at tea a little while afterwards, and Sally's eyes were overflowing, she told her not to cry, for that she was sure that everything was ordered for the best, and she had much to be thankful for in being brought home again in health and safety-Yes, that was what Sally felt. It was not sorrow, but gladness that made her heart so full, and she said quietly, "Mother, I don't mean to cry, and I am not unthankful, but the tears will run down."

It was not long before Mrs. Fleetwell came in to give her account of Johnny's accident, and Sally's care and goodness since, which she praised as it deserved. The poor little boy did not live to watch many wintry sun-rays upon the kitchen wall; but with her baby restored, and Sally

grown so much more gentle and kind and respectful, it was no wonder that Mrs. Barfoot's spirit felt cheered, and that she saw the hard, cold season come on with much more hope and trust than she would have done if it had not been for her journey to London.

THE INDIAN'S REVENGE.

MANY years ago, in a cottage near a forest in North America, there lived a young Englishman named William S-, who had lately gone out to America, and was cultivating some land. Several other families had settled not far off, and the country was rich and beautiful. William's cottage had a garden, well stocked with fruittrees and vegetables, and on the side of the hill was an orchard, full of peach and cherrytrees. The Indian corn was just coming into ear, and behind the cottage lay the pine forest, beyond which were hunting-grounds, to which the settlers used to go, after the harvest was over, in order to lay in a stock of venison for winter use.

But at that time there were no Churches or clergymen in that part of the country, and even those who had been taught something of religion before they came to live there, too often forgot it all, when they had nothing to remind them even that they were Christians.

There were then many native Indians near the settlements of the "white men," and between the

white and the "red men" (as the Indians were called), there was frequently great enmity. It was not often, however, that any Indians came near this cottage, though sometimes some of the Minateree tribe had been seen on the outskirts of the forest; but they had never done any harm, for this tribe was friendly with the white men.

One beautiful evening in June, William Swas seated at his door, sharpening a scythe. He was a fine-looking young man, and he was kindhearted in the main, but he was full of prejudices against the Indian race, and perhaps against all who were not English, like himself. He despised and hated the Indians too, because they were heathens; forgetting that they had never any one to teach them the religion of Jesus Christ, and that he, who had been taught when a child, was not living like a Christian. He was so busy with his work, that he did not see any one coming, or look up till he heard close by him, in a voice of entreaty, the words, "Will you give an unfortunate hunter some supper and a lodging for the night?"

The young man raised his head, and saw a tall Indian, equipped as on a hunting excursion. He answered with a look as angry as his words and his tone, "Heathen, Indian dog! you shall have nothing here-begone!"

The Indian turned away; then again looking at William S-, he said in a low, musical voice, "But I am very hungry, for it is very long since I have eaten; give me only a crust of bread and a bone, to strengthen me for the rest of my journey."

"Get you gone!" said the farmer; "I have nothing for you."

The Indian hunter looked as if pride and want were struggling within him; but want prevailed, and in a faint weak voice he said, "Give me but a cup of water, for I am very faint."

But William S―, though he called himself a Christian, did not grant even this request. He told the Indian he might go and drink at the river which flowed at some distance.

With a proud, yet mournful look, the Indian turned away, and slowly walked in the direction of the river. His weak steps showed in what need he was; indeed, an Indian must have been reduced to the last extremity of want, before he would have asked again for what had been once refused.

But happily all that had passed had been heard by the young wife of William S-, as she sat by the open window, putting her baby to sleep. Mary S was kind and gentle, and there are few women indeed, as we are told by those who have travelled all over the world, who can refuse to help those who are in distress.

Mary watched the poor Indian as he went away, and at no great distance from the house, she saw him sink down upon the ground, as if quite exhausted. At the same time, she saw her husband slowly walking to the stables, and looking as if he did not feel very comfortable.

She hastened to take a jug of milk, and a napkin, in which she put a good meal of bread and roasted kid, with a little parched corn also, and was soon at the Indian's side.