must be honest; I could not put off paying, and yet keep what would find the money and more too.” Well, there was no help for it, only Meggie begged for him to come again to-morrow, and got him to promise that nothing should be done till to-morrow. What was to happen before to-morrow, Meggie couldn't say; but at any rate the evil hour was put off, and she would see the dear bird again. The next day kind Mrs. Clifford came again to teach her the embroidery, and she soon saw that her little favourite Meggie had something on her mind; and presently, by kind questions, drew from her that she was not fretting, as she thought, over her illness, but about the darling bird. And just then Karl came in with the bird and cage ; so Mrs. Clifford and he had some talk about the hard times, and how hand-loom weaving was getting worse than ever, and about Karl's powers, and hopes, and fears, and, finally, about the bird. “It must be sold,” Karl said ; “ay, Meggie, darling, you'd rather let him go to some one as would care for him, than let the landlord seize him for the rent 1" “I’ll tell you what I can do,” said Mrs. Clifford: “if you like I will buy him, and you shall redeem him from me, Meggie, when you can. You will soon gain money with your new trade of embroidery, for which I can get you plenty of orders.” And so it was settled, Mrs. Clifford gave Karl three guineas, and heard from Meggie all about the feeding and petting of poor Tony, and with very sad hearts Meggie and Karl said goodbye to their pet, and Karl carried him to Mrs. Clifford's carriage, and did not forget to thank her gratefully for her kindness to Meggie and to himself. “I’m a plain man, ma'am, and I’ve no words to thank you; but God will bless you for being so good to my darling. It seems as though everybody had been so good to her and me lately,

though it's sorely I miss her at home. Might I ask, madam, does Dr. Clifford think she might soon come home to me 1” Mrs. Clifford said she would ask him, and told Karl she would think of all he had told her about the weaving, and she drove away. Well, I must get on with my story, or you will think it is never coming to an end. Soon after this Meggie was sent home from the hospital ; she was better, so that she could use her hands uite freely, but she could not walk, though she had not much pain—hardly any, except sometimes. But if she had lost the power of walking, she had gained a great deal. She had gained some firm, kind friends who would never lose sight of her, in Dr. and Mrs. Clifford, and the matron of the hospital. She had a trade in the beautiful, fine embroidery which Mrs. Clifford had taught her, by which she could gain ten shillings a-week, and Mrs. Clifford was unwearied in getting her orders. The day she went home the matron took her in a car, and the poor child was sadly tried and shaken ; but what a surprise there was for her, the big, dark old room had been coloured and papered freshly ; the dividing curtain was of fresh clean chintz; on the window-sill, which was large and deep, and old-fashioned, stood some pots of common myrtle and geranium, such as had a chance of living even in that murky atmosphere, and before the window a little couch most comfortably arranged with pillows, just to suit her best, with a table beside it. But two things were missing—her father's loom and Tony. There was a good tea on the table, all looking so bright, and clean, and tempt— ing, and Karl looking happier and orighter than Meggie had ever seen him. He had had hard work to keep the secret: what talk he had had with Mrs. Clifford and with the doctor It was they who had had the room done

up, and they had persuaded Karl to give up striving to continue a weaver, and to take the place of master in their Day Ragged-school, and get a regular fifteen shillings a-week. Some years ago Karl would almost rather have starved, but everybody had been so good to his Meggie, and is: loving, kind ways had made so many friends, that he had learnt, that one must have to do with one's fellow-creatures and give and take kindnesses. He was wonder. warmed and softened by finding such good friends; so the loom was gone—sold, not to be redeemed, but three five-shilling pieces were put by already for the redeeming of dear old Tony; and our readers will not doubt that before many weeks were over, Tony filled his former place in the window, and, we may add, in a handsome new cage given to him by Mrs. Clifford.

And now we will say good-bye to Meggie and her father. No one will

doubt that Karl at least was happier, trying to do good to others, and doing his new work in the same diligent spirit he had done his old one, and with more success; surrounded too, as he soon was, by kind friends, grateful pupils, and, moreover, having always with him his bright, happy-hearted, loving, little Meggie. And Meggie had gained her great wish of her life— helping her father, and being nearly as much to him as ever she was, even though she had to lie on her couch. She had a trade in which she could earn nearly as much as would keep them. And though, of course, they would have much rather the accident had never happened, it may be doubted whether they would rather have gone on in their old shut-up life, than been, as now, beloved by all their striving neighbours, and having Dr. and Mrs. Clifford's constant friendship and frequent visits.

our own. There are others that we should provide for, namely, the poor. Winter should put us in mind to share our comforts with the comfortless. “The poor,” Christ says, “you have always with you.” And why is it so? Surely that our hearts may be moved to kindness and true charity. How do you give to the poor? Do you give only when a beggar happens to come to your door, or when some one is looking at you, and you wish to show how kind you are?—or do you make it a rule to leave at least some one poor person happier every week i This is the true way. I have read of a little boy who earns a loaf every Saturday to give away to a poor family. He goes to the mill with the corn, he splits chips for kindling the fires, or goes errands, or helps his father or mother in some way, while other lads are at play. That is his way of earning the loaf, which he gives to the poor neighbour. A loaf a-week makes fiftytwo loaves a-year. That boy spreads a pretty good table for the poor and needy. You may depend upon it he enjoys his skating or foot-ball all the more for his kindly thought. I have heard of a good old woman, who, though her living is eked out by charity, yet contrives to give a warm petticoat every winter to some neighbour poorer than herself. “I must give a petticoat's worth,” she says; and so, little by little, she saves enough to buy one. People wonder how she can ; but

such sorts of “can” depend much more :

upon a big heart than a full purse. How many children who read this in bright and happy homes are giving a loaf's worth, or a petticoat's worth, to feed the hungry, or clothe the naked, this bleak December 1 You know how highly Christ prizes such gifts: “Inasmuch,” He says, “as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto Me."

Such service, done for His sake, meets

with a gracious and blessed reward.