The shoemaker leaned against his cottage, and tried to sce if any one were in sight; but not a soul seemed about, although now and then a sound of laughter was borne up the street.

The door of his next neighbor's house was wide open. He looked in, and saw a woman standing at the fire, superintending some cooking operation, with her back to him.

Is yer Jim in, mistress?"

"Na," she said, without turning her head. "He'll be doon at some o' his plays. He's nae been in frae the schule yet." "It's the same wi' Tam. Losh! I'm wunnerin' what's keepin' him."

"Keepin' him, say ye? What wad keep a laddie?"

Half satisfied, the shoemaker went back to his house, and found the kettle singing merrily on the fire. He felt a little anxious. The boy was always home in good time. He crept round again to his neighbor's.

"I'm gettin' feart about him," he said; "he's niver been sae late's this."

"Hoot, awa' wi' ye! he'll be doon, maybe, at the bathin' wi' the lave, but I'll gang doon the village wi' ye, an' we'll soon fin' the laddie."

She hastily put her bonnet on her head, for the night air was cold, and they both stood together outside the cottage. He clutched her arm. What was that? Through the still night air, along the dark street, came the sound of muffiled feet and hushed voices, as of those who bore a burden. With blanched face the old man tried to speak, but he could not. A fearful thought came upon him. . . .

They are coming nearer. They are stopping and crowding together, and whispering low. The two listeners crept up to them; and there in the middle of the group lay Tammy dead,-drowned.

With a loud shriek, “Tammy, my Tammy!" the old man fell down beside the body of his son.

They carried both in together into the little room behind the shop, and went out quietly, leaving one of their number who volunteered to stay all night.

The shoemaker soon revived. He sat down on one side of the fire, and the man who watched with him sat on the

other. The kettle was soon on the fire, and he watched its steam rising with a half-interested indifference. Then at times he would seem to remember that something had happened; and he would creep to the side of the bed where the body lay, and gaze on the straight, handsome features and the bloodless cheeks, quiet and cold in death. "Tammy, my man; my ain Tammy, speak to me ance—jist ance— I'm awfu' lonesome-like." Then the watcher would lead him quietly to his seat by the fire; and there they sat the whole night long, till the stir of the outer world aroused them....

The school is filled with happy, pleasant faces. The prize day has come. There stands the minister, looking very important, and the schoolmaster very excited. The prizes are all arranged on a table before the minister, and the forms for the prize-winners are before the table. And now every thing is ready. The minister begins by telling the parents present how he has examined the school, and found the children quite up to the mark; and then he addresses a few words to the children, winding up his remarks by telling them how at school he had thought that "multiplication is a vexation," etc., but that now he found the use of it. And then the children laughed, for they heard the same speech every year; but it made the excitement greater when they had the prizes to look at, as they shone on the table in their gorgeous gilding, during the speech. And now the schoolmaster is going to read out the prize-winners, and the children are almost breathless with excitement,-you might have heard a pin drop,-when from the end of the room, a figure totters forward, the figure of an old man, white-headed, and with a strange, glassy look in his eye. He advances to where the children are sitting, and takes his place among them. Every one looks compassionately towards him, and women are drying their eyes with their aprons. The schoolmaster hesitates a moment, and looks at the minister. The minister nods to him, and he begins the list. It is with almost a saddened look that the children come to take their prizes, for they think of the sharp, bright, active playmate who was so lately with them; and they gaze timidly toward his father who sits in their midst.

"Thomas Rutherford," reads out the master, "gained the prize for arithmetic."

I'll tak' Tam's prize for him. The laddie's na weel. He's awa'. I'll tak' it;" and the shoemaker moved hastily up to the table.

The minister handed him the book; and, silently taking it, he made his way to the door.

A quiet old man moves listlessly about the village. He does nothing, but every one has a kind word for him. He never walks towards the river, but shudders when its name is mentioned. He sits in his workshop often, and looks up expectantly when he hears the joyous shout of the boys as they come out of school, and then a look of pain flits across his face. He has one treasure,-a book, which he keeps along with his family Bible, and he is never tired of reading through his blurred spectacles the words on the first page:

BARNES SCHOOL.

FIRST CLASS.

PRIZE FOR ARITHMETIC

AWARDED TO

THOMAS RUTHERFORD.

SIMILIA SIMILIBUS CURANTUR.-R. H. NEWELL.

Miss Dora Delaine of West Livingston Place-
A rose in her bloom and a lily in grace-
Fell sick, in an hour, of what none could define,
But wiseacres called going into decline.

It happened this way: on the night of the ball
To Russia's Grand Duke, young Alexis, the tall,
While music and mirth, fairy twins as they are,
Were paying their court to the son of the Czar,
And lights sparkled endless, and jewels and flowers
Lent lustre and hue to the wings of the hours,-
Ere yet her proud eyes lost the fire of their glance,
Our Dora turned faint in a pause of the dance.
The heat, or the crowd, or excitement, 'twas said,
Thus made in a moment her cheeks like the dead;
And ices, and essences pungent, and fans
Were proffered and fluttered, and various plans

Were hinted for gaining more air; but she sighed
The single word "Home!" and would not be denied.
Papa and mamma, when the carriage was called,
Bore homeward poor Dora, all muffled and shawled,
And not from that night was she ever the same
Bright spirit of health; but as languid and tame
And dull as a bird that refuses to sing,

And droops in his cage with his head in his wing.
At first it was thought the affection was slight,
Some freak of a chill, or of lacing too tight;
But when to her face there returned not its bloom,
And listless and pale she remained in her room,
The family doctor was summoned to see
Whatever the matter could possibly be.

To humor her mood-which was rather ill-bred-
He came as her friend, not physician, he said;
And having first talked of the weather and news,
Remarked that he feared Miss Delaine had "the blues."
And hoped for the sake of herself and her friends,
She'd take a prescription of tincture, which tends
To fuse with its iron the blood, and give tone-
"O, pshaw!" exclaimed Dora, “Do leave me alone!
I hate your old drugs!" and the pointed rebuff
Offended the doctor, who left in a huff.

Two other practitioners, stately and grave,

Appeared in their turns, and their evidence gave:
Digestive inertia," said one; "and for you

Some acid sulphuric, diluted, will do."

"It's nervous pulmonic," the other observed;

"Take Jink's Hypophosphates and don't be unnerved." "I'm well!" Dora cried, in hysteric revulse,

"I won't show my tongue, and you shan't feel my pulse!"
Her father, perplexed, between anger and pain,
Bethought him at last of young Doctor Migraine,
Who came from the South when the fighting was done
To practice in Gotham, where fortunes are won;
And, calling him in, laid a hand on his knee,
And said, "You will find, sir, my daughter to be
Convinced she is well, spite of all you can say;
Yet dwindling and peaking and pining away."
"I've heard of the case, and have seen Miss Delaine,
And went to the ball," answered Dr. Migraine;

Nor spoke any more till he entered the room
Where Dora was drooping in silence and gloom.
"A doctor again!" was her sigh of despair-
"Oh, when will it end?" He selected a chair,
And, seating himself with his face to her own,
Replied: "You can tell that yourself, and alone!
My words shall be few, and as plain as my art;
You're sick, Miss Delaine, with disease of the heart."
"Twas rather the tone than the language that made
Miss Dora breathe quick, as she said, half afraid,

Why, what do you mean?" He was swift to reply, "That night at the ball very near you was I."

She stared and grew white, and the speaker went on:
"I can't say I saw, but I heard what was done;
One moment you beamed-('But Montgomery Sill
'S engaged to 'Bel Vaughn')—in the next you were ill!"

She started to rise, with the tears on her face-
"Your words are insulting!" He bowed from his place-
"One moment," he begged, "till I've said what I may;
Then chide, if you choose, and I'll hasten away.
"The words I o'erheard with yourself at the ball,
Are not more for me than for you to recall
With pride or delight-(if indeed you are still
Inclined to waste thought on Montgomery Sill);
For Isabel Vaughn, with a friend of my heart
Once played such a cruel, perfidious part,
That now, even now, when his care's at an end,
I feel, and am spurned, and betrayed with my friend!
"A guest from the South at the Springs, in a time
When fortune was his in his own sunny clime,
He bowed to her charms, nor resisted the spell
That urged him to woo her, the fair Isabel!
His suit was accepted; they parted, to meet
No more, until war, like a tempest of sleet,
Had blighted his fortunes, with others, ah me!
When Sherman passed through on his march to the sea.
And then, when he offered release, in his pride,
To her who had promised her hand as his bride,
She answered the note with this stab of the pen-
"Twas but a flirtation-'tis ages since then!'
"And now she is pledged to Montgomery Sill!—
The friend of my heart, lives he under it still?