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and dismissed her for that evening from her work.

The injured girl ran up-stairs as fast as she could, and the first object that met her eye, upon the landing of the garret, was her crippled brother. Poor Eddy had heard her cry, it had rung through the whole house, and pierced his lonely garret; aye, and it had gone much farther, much higher, even to the place where all the groans of the oppressed ascend, and where they are all written down in remembrance before the Lord.

"What! is that you, Eddy?" and the little girl stooped down to kiss the crippled boy.

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Oh, Mary, I heard your voice!" By this time Eddy Graham had drawn in his head from between the broken banisters, through which he had thrust it in his great anxiety to find out the cause of the scream.

"Yes, I was hurt for a moment, but it does not matter now, it will be better soon; come in, there's a good boy."

"Who hurt you?" asked Eddy.

"The old woman.'

"I'll kill her!" cried the little boy, grinding his teeth, and clenching his thin and bony hand; "I'll kill her!" and he shook all over with rage.

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Oh, Eddy, what a wicked thing to say! Oh, Eddy, God will be very angry at what you say!'

Eddy Graham was not a passionate boy, far from it; he had for a long time borne meekly the ill-usage of his brother and the threats and cuffs of the old woman, but this was the first time that any one had ever made Mary scream with pain. The crippled boy seemed to have been beside himself for a moment, and now that the paroxysm had passed off, he was himself again. His sorrow was as great as his previous rage, and he sank back exhausted upon his pallet. He was too weak to raise his arms now, for the exertion which he had just gone through had been too much for him, but his sister joined them together for him, and he humbly prayed to be forgiven. Eddy Graham felt much happier after his prayer, and then he heard from Mary all that had passed between her and the old

woman.

"Does she think I'm likely to die soon?" said the little boy, and he fixed his eye earnestly on his sister, as though he would read her very soul.

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Why so, Eddy?"

"Because"-and he dropped his voice into a whisper-" I should be very glad.'

"What! like to go away from me?" asked Mary; and she bent down, and put the unwounded hand and arm round his neck— "leave your own sister?"

"What good am I here?" said the cripple, mournfully; "I can do nothing for you, nor

for John; and I'm often in pain, and often hungry; 'tis a hard thing, Mary, to be hungry every day." The room was too dark for the little boy to see the expression of agony that was in his sister's face, not from her hurt, but from his words. 66 Hunger makes one very low and weak, and you know I'm never without pain, and I feel that I never shall be better, nor worth anything to you or any one else; I only wish that I could pay John back some of the earnings which he has spent on me; he thinks I never tried to cry the fish, but you know, Mary, that I did."

"But you must not talk about going; who knows but that perhaps you will get well? and whether or no, you must stay until God likes to send for you. And you know you wouldn't like to leave me, would you?" And the affectionate girl kissed his pale, thin cheek.

"Get well!" said the cripple. "No, I don't think of that now; there was a time . when I longed to get well, when I hoped that the pain would go away, but I don't long or hope about it any more. I wish now to go away and be with our mother; she is neither hungry nor in pain. There is only one thing that I should like to stay for," said the cripple after a pause, "that is, to pray for John, for who will pray for him when I have gone away?" Oh, I pray for him too," said Mary Graham, half reproachfully; "I never let a

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morning or evening pass but that I ask God to make him better.'

Yes, morning and evening, but I pray for him in the middle of the day, and often in the middle of the night too; I'm often awake, Mary, when you're fast asleep, and I try to count the stars as they shine so brightly in the sky. There are no cripples, no hungry people where I want to go, and it will be very sweet to be with mother once again." "But, Eddy," said Mary, solemnly, "are you sure, if you die, that God will take you away to the good place, to be with Him? It was a very wicked thing to say awhile ago that you would kill the old woman."

"So it was," said Eddy, "I confess it, and I am very sorry for it; but I was half mad, for I could not get down when I heard you scream; 'twas very wicked, but I'll pray for her, from this time out, just as well as for John."

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"I hope whenever God takes you, it will be to heaven; and I hope to get there too.' "I think He will take me there," said Eddy. "I keep going over all we learned from dear mother, and at the school, and it all seems fresh in my mind as I lie here. I don't hope to get there by myself, but I do trust in Jesus Christ, and I will ask every day to be made like Him. Mary," said Eddy Graham, "'tis a great comfort to me that Jesus Christ was so often poor, and

hungry, and in pain, and He has promised that we shall be hungry no more. You wouldn't keep me if you could?"

"I would not, Eddy; you would be happier away, and so should I.”

"But you are not in pain, you are never hungry, you are never lonely; why should you like to go?"

"Oh to be happy, to be sure," answered his sister; "but, Eddy, perhaps God is not going to send for you for a long time; shall I tell you what the old woman said?"

"What was it?"

"That you ought to be taken to an hospital, and I have been wondering if you could be cured by any of the great men there.'

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Oh, don't send me there!" cried the little fellow, piteously, and he seized the hand that was round his neck; "if I am to die, let me die here; I know I can't get well. You won't let them take me, will you?" and he tightened his hold upon her hand.

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No; if I can help it they shan't," said Mary Graham, "but think about it yourself; if they could do you any good you'd like to go.'

Perhaps more might have been said, but John Graham came in at that moment, and they could see at a glance that he was not sober. Mary knew that whenever he saw her talking to Eddy, he always suspected