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reached to their very hearts, and would, they hoped, produce good fruits. Several years afterwards a Prussian magistrate told Mr. Shillitoe that his visits to Spandau had produced real and lasting good results on the conduct of many of the prisoners.

His varied and persevering labours in promotion of Sabbath observance, in opposition to theatres, and in behalf of cruellytreated animals, we can only allude to.

After his return from the long American journey in 1829, at the age of nearly seventy-six, he quietly settled down at Tottenham, and there, during the few remaining years of his stay in this world, he occupied himself with such religious and philanthropic labours as his failing strength allowed him to perform. He devoted much time to visiting the poorer inhabitants of Tottenham and its neighbourhood. His homely manners and humble simplicity made him a great favourite amongst them, and gladly they welcomed the brisk footsteps and cheery voice of the active little evangelist. He raised a fund for an extensive addition to the almshouse accommodation of the place, and on this and other benevolent errands he often visited his rich neighbours. It was not his custom to entreat, he rather seemed to demand, in a good-humoured way, the aid his poor clients needed. 'I want such a sum of money,' was his frequent salutation to his wealthy acquaintances; and as it was well known that Thomas would not take 'No' for an answer, he generally obtained his requests without difficulty. Loved and honoured as he was by persons of all denominations, his way was made easy in such matters. better man never lived,' was the verdict of a clergyman of the Church of England on hearing of his death.

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His later years were spent thus, surrounded by kind friends, in the society of his faithful and happy wife, and of the loving circle of his children, who had acquired for themselves useful and honourable positions in society. He was able to continue his religious ministry and charitable visits until two or three weeks before his death; and throughout his last brief illness, he enjoyed the blessing of an unclouded mind. His last recorded words were words of prayer: Oh holy, blessed Jesus,' he exclaimed, 'be with me in this awful moment. Come, oh come, and receive me to Thyself; and of Thine own free mercy, in Thine own time, admit me into Thy heavenly

kingdom.'

'WHAT

ALBERT MILLER'S LEGACY.

WHAT is a legacy, mamma?' said Albert Miller, looking up from the book he was reading, as he sat one evening beside her.

Get the dictionary and find out for yourself, Bertie,' she replied, pleasantly.

The boy rose from his low seat, and bringing the big book of classified words to the table before her, he looked to her for assistance. The volume was as full of mystery to him as a 'Bradshaw's Railway Guide' would be to one who had never heard of a railway.

'Now, Bertie, see, I am going to look for L's,' said his mother, rapidly turning over the leaves. J, K-here it isL. Now we look on a little way, and come to Legacy; there it is. Read for yourself.'

Bertie read, "Legacy, a bequest; Legacy, a bequest; a particular thing, or certain sum of money, given by last will or testament." ›

'So that if a friend of yours, dying, were to leave you a gift of money, or anything else, that would be a legacy, Bertie. But let us hope it may be long before we receive a legacy. We would rather have our dear relatives and friends than any of their possessions, wouldn't we?'

'O yes, mamma,' said the boy earnestly, as he thought just for a moment that there was nothing in the whole world he would rather have instead of his mother or father. He was about to settle down to his reading again, when Mrs. Miller said, 'I think it is time for you to see about bed.'

O mamma, not yet,' he replied, looking up at the timepiece, which pronounced the time to be half-past eight. 'Let me wait a little longer to see if papa will come. You will be

so dull here alone.'

He went towards the window and pulled aside the blind, half hoping to see his father nearing the house. But all the people about passed by the house, and he returned to his seat, saying, 'It is such a fine night, mamma, and the stars are all

out.'

'All that you can see in the strip of sky above the houses,' she replied, with a sad smile. 'Ah, Penge is the place to see the stars, and all the glory of the sky,-at dear mamma's home. How lovely it must be there just now in these early spring days and nights-so different from these close streets. Open the window a little, Bertie, it is very mild this evening.'

The boy did so, and then said, 'I wish you could go to Penge, mamma; it would make you feel so well. And I know you would love to see grandma and grandpa. Is he better?'

'I don't know, dear. I expected to hear to-day. I wish a letter would come, for I feel very uneasy.'

'You may get one by the late post, mamma,' said Albert, thoughtfully. Don't trouble about it. Let me read aloud to you; and then, perhaps, you will forget it.'

Mrs. Miller assented to this, and the child directly began. She did not hear a word that he read, to comprehend it; her heart was too full of sad thoughts, and the childish, yet deep, sympathy and consideration of her little son moved her so that tears dropped upon her work, and her musings made her oblivious of all external things. Often during the past two or three years she had wished intensely that Albert were a girl; a prophetic something had told her that the time was coming when she would need the sympathy with which most girls naturally bless their mothers in time of trouble, and which cannot be expected from boys. But as the years passed on, Mrs. Miller found that, though Albert could sometimes be as boisterous and wayward as a young savage-a very rip of a boy,' as the nurse phrased it-there was a wealth of latent tenderness in his heart which manifested itself in words and acts of affection, deep and delicate as a girl's, directly he saw it was needed. So, when a great trouble rose upon the horizon of her life, and gradually increased, glooming all her sky, she was gratified and solaced to find that her ten-year-old boy entered into and tried to share her sorrow, with a solicitude and affection as rare as beautiful in children of his sex.

What her trouble was, few in the outer world knew. For as a friend, and a business man, Mr. Miller generally preserved such an exterior as produced a not unfavourable impression upon those with whom he came daily, but not too closely, in contact. Some of the more far-seeing opined that he was in a slippery condition; managed his affairs with too loose a hand; and was a little too fond of pleasure; the sort of pleasure, by the way, which is followed by the keenest pain. He could most truly have uttered the personal pronoun, first person, singular, in reply to the question propounded by Solomon in the twenty-ninth verse of the twenty-third chapter of Proverbs. Yet few besides his family, and the clique whose foolish and unlawful pleasures he nightly shared, suspected how very far he was going astray.

A while since it had been nothing unusual for him to spend an evening at home with his wife. Now, she might look out into the prosy Pimlico street, night after night, fifty times in two or three hours, hoping, but in vain, to greet the wellknown form, which it was her joy to see. Cabs trundled past, and footsteps clanged along; but she might listen until heart

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and ear grew sick, for the step which used to come so firmly and briskly to the happy home, and which was music to her

ear.

Albert had grown into the habit of listening and watching, too; and very often, having become utterly weary of so doing, he would lie down upon his little bed with a great weight upon his poor young heart, such as a child should never know.

Thus heavy-hearted, he silently obeyed his mother when she said to him, after he had read to her for about half-an-hour, on the evening of which I am writing, 'Now put the book away, Bertie. I am sure you are very tired.'

Having replaced the book on the little side-table, he said, 'Shall you be dull, mamma? '

'O no, darling,' she replied, cheerfully. 'I shall be very busy with my work. Hasten now, and get those tired eyes closed up for the night. Be careful not to wake Ernest and Eddie.'

He kissed her and bade her good night, then went very demurely out of the room.

As soon as she was alone, Mrs. Miller let the work drop from her hands, and, burying her face in them, gave way to a flood of tears which she had been struggling all the evening to repress. She always strove to conceal her grief from Albert, for fear of its distressing him.

She scarcely knew what particular cause there was for this passionate weeping. She was not thinking more sadly than usual about her husband; but it seemed as if some approaching trouble were casting its shadow before, and deepening the gloom of her life. To her it was such an hour as we all sometimes experience, when, look which way we will, backward, around us, or forward, all seems dark and cheerless, and life scarcely worth possessing. Such times are always followed by bright sunny seasons, when the heart sings like a morningbird, and takes for its refrain, 'O my God, I thank Thee that I live.' But while the darkness lasts it is hard to endure. Just now it had settled down upon Mrs. Miller's soul like a thick, starless night, and it was to deepen yet more and more, before the coming of the cheerful dawn which should herald a happier time for her.

Her husband was late, very late, that night; yet she waited up for him as was her wont. The consequence was she did not get to bed until the second hour of the new day; and, having cried herself to sleep, you may suppose that on rising at the usual time in the morning her depression of the previous night was deepened, rather than in the least degree removed, after the two or three hours of troubled sleep she had had.

Nevertheless, before her husband and Albert-who was now free of the nursery at meal-times-she assumed as cheerful an air as possible. Mr. Miller was up earlier than usual that morning, as particular business required him to be in the city. soon after nine, he said. He looked but half-awake as he seated himself at the breakfast table, and unfolded the morning paper. He glanced down its columns listlessly, stirring his coffee the whole time, in an absent manner. He flouted at all the eatables which his wife invited him to take, and decided at last to have 'just a biscuit' with his coffee, in preference to the more substantial fare spread before him.

Having said that, there was a cheerless silence until the postman came and letters were brought in. There were three or four for Mr. Miller, and one for his wife, addressed in a delicate, trembling hand, that was very dear to her.

'From grandma?' inquired Albert, eagerly.

'Yes, dear. I hope there is good news.'

Half-hoping, half-fearing, she unfolded the letter. Before she had read far a sudden flush overspread her face, and then rushed back, leaving her face perfectly pale. Albert was watching her all the time.

His words, What is the matter, mamma?' caused Mr. Miller to look up inquiringly.

'My mother is a widow,' she faltered, tremblingly.

'When did he go off?' asked Mr. Miller, looking fixedly at

her.

'Last evening.'

'And your mother sent no telegram?'

"No, she feared I should be too much alarmed, and thought I would rather have the news from her, though a little later.'

Mrs. Miller read on to the end; then the tears came in a rush as she looked up and said, 'Dear mamma! How wonderfully she bears trouble! This note is full of comfort for me, and says but little of her own deep sorrow. Just like her, so self-forgetful, and regardful of others.'

'What is to be done?' asked Mr. Miller.

'I think I had better go down to-day, and take baby, of course; and you could spare time to come on the day of the funeral, couldn't you?'

'Perhaps so,' he replied, shortly.

'And bring Bertie with you,' she continued. 'Meanwhile he will be company for you in the mornings and evenings.' Having said so much, she leaned her elbow on the table to support her head, and wept silently for some time. Her husband did not offer a single expression of condolence, or

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