a scream of pain - it was raised again, and again about to fall — when Nicholas Nickleby, suddenly starting up, cried, "Stop!" in a voice that made the rafters ring.

"Who cried stop?" said Squeers, turning savagely round. "I!" said Nicholas, stepping forward. "This must not goon!" "Must not go on?" cried Squeers, almost in a shriek.

"No!" thundered Nicholas.

Aghast and stupefied by the boldness of the interference, Squeers released his hold of Smike, and, falling back a pace or two, gazed upon Nicholas with looks that were positively frightful.

"I say must not!" repeated Nicholas, nothing daunted; "shall not! I will prevent it!"

Squeers continued to gaze upon him, with his eyes starting out of his head; but astonishment had actually for the moment bereft him of speech.

"You have disregarded all my quiet interference in the miserable lad's behalf," said Nicholas; "returned no answer to the letter in which I begged forgiveness for him, and offered to be responsible that he would remain quietly here. Don't blame me for this public interference. You have brought it upon yourself; not I."

"Sit down, beggar!" screamed Squeers, almost beside himself with rage, and seizing Smike as he spoke.

"Wretch!" rejoined Nicholas, fiercely, "touch him at your peril! I will not stand by and see it done; my blood is up, and I have the strength of ten such men as you. Look to yourself, for, by Heaven, I will not spare you, if you drive me on!"

"Stand back!" cried Squeers, brandishing his weapon.

"I have a long series of insults to avenge," said Nicholas,

flushed with passion;" and my indignation is aggravated by the dastardly cruelties practised on helpless infancy in this foul den. Have a care; for if you do raise the devil within me, the conseshall fall heavily upon your own head."

quences

He had scarcely spoken when Squeers, in a violent outbreak of wrath and with a cry like the howl of a wild beast, spat upon him, and struck him a blow across the face with his instrument of torture, which raised up a bar of livid flesh as it was inflicted. Smarting with the agony of the blow, and concentrating into that moment all his feelings of rage, scorn, and indignation, Nicholas sprang upon him, wrested the weapon from his hand, and, pinning him by the throat, beat the ruffian till he roared for mercy.

God moves in a mysterious way
His wonders to perform;
He plants his footsteps in the sea,
And rides upon the storm.

Deep in unfathomable mines
Of never-failing skill

He treasures up his bright designs,
And works his sovereign will.

Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take,
The clouds ye SO much dread
Are big with mercy, and shall break

In blessings on your head.

Judge not the Lord by feeble sense,
But trust Him for His grace;
Behind a frowning providence
He hides a smiling face.

His purposes will ripen fast,
Unfolding every hour:

The bud may have a bitter taste,
But sweet will be the flower.

Blind unbelief is sure to err,

And scan His work in vain:

God is His own interpreter,

And He will make it plain.

COWPER.

FAILED

Failed! Jim Miserton failed! You don't mean to say

it's so?

Had it from Smith at the bank? Well, he's a man that should

know.

Forty-two cents on the dollar? I cannot believe my ears.

There's no such thing as judging a man by the way he appears.

Yes, you may well say "failed," there's more than the term implies,

When all there is of a man in a hopeless ruin lies.

To come after twenty years of a stubborn uphill strife,

It isn't a business smash so much as a failure in life.

Gold was always his god - he'd nothing else in his soul;

Money, for money's sake, was ever his ultimate goal.

A "self-made man" they styled him, for low and poor he began;
But now his money has vanished, and what is left of the man?

He had no eye for beauty, for literature no taste;
Buying pictures or books he counted a shameful waste;
Nothing he cared for art, or the poet's elaborate rhymes;
His soul was only attuned to the musical jingle of dimes.

Selfish, exacting, and stern, a hand he would treat like a slave;
Long were his hours of toil and scanty the pay that he gave;
Made of cast-iron himself, his zeal in the struggle for gold
Left him no pity to spare for those of a different mold.

Never a cent for the poor, for the naked never a stitch;

""Twas all their fault," he would say; they should save like him, and grow rich.

Now and then to the church he'd forward a liberal amount,
Duly set down in his books to the advertising account.

So he succeeded, of course, and piled his coffers with wealth,
Missing pleasure and culture, losing vigor and health,
Now he's down at the bottom, exactly where he began,
Even his gold has vanished, and what is left of the man?

A self-made man, indeed! then we owe no honor to such;
The genuine self-made man you cannot honor too much;
But be sure what you make is a man, ́· with a heart and a soul,

and a mind,

Not merely a pile of dollars, that goes, leaving nothing behind. PHILLIPS THOMPSON.

THE REAL TREASURE

But the complete torpor came at last: the fingers lost their tension, the arms unbent; then the little head fell away from the bosom, and the blue eyes opened wide on the cold starlight. At first there was a little peevish cry of "mammy," and an effort to regain the pillowing arm and bosom: but mammy's ear was deaf, and the pillow seemed to be slipping away backwards. Suddenly, as the child rolled downwards on its mother's knees, all wet with snow, its eyes were caught by a bright glancing light on the white ground, and, with the ready transition of infancy, it was immediately absorbed in watching the bright living thing running towards it, yet never arriving. That bright living thing must be caught; and in an instant the child had slipped on all fours, and held out one little hand to catch the gleam. But the gleam would not be caught in that way, and now the head was held up to see where the cunning gleam came from. It came from a very bright place; and the little one, rising on its legs, toddled through the snow, the old grimy shawl in which it was wrapped trailing behind it, and the queer little bonnet dangling at its back-toddled on to the open door of Silas Marner's cot