Rose lay half the night thinking of her generous, kind-hearted cousin.

*

*

แ Please, sir, I had to come back again, for my mother is very sick this morning, and she said I must try and see Mr. Crawley."

"Off with you, you young torment; haven't I told you Mr. Crawley isn't up yet? and I tell you now he's not likely to be for an hour or two to come."

The child crept away shivering with cold, and returned, for the second time, to tell her tale of disappointment to her sick mother. Rose had now been absent for two weeks, and poor widow Brown was much worse, and suffering for want of the attentions that were to have been given by Mr. Crawley. Too indolent to rise o' mornings, he had not seen the little girl; and too much taken up with visiting and talking over schemes of benevolence in the afternoon, Cathcart had quite forgotten the widow and her children. Another week went by, and the pale, tearful little girl again implored the servant to let her see Mr. Crawley. This time he was not at home, and the man told the child that his master would see her mother in the morning.

"Call me to-morrow at nine," said Cathcart, when dismissing his servant at night; "one must make some sacrifice in the cause of poor suffering humanity."

In the morning, Crawley was awoke by the servant: "The clock has struck nine, sir."

"Very well, John, I'll be down presently."

When John left the room, his master slowly raised himself in bed, taking care, as he did so, to envelop himself in the covering, until but the upper part of his face was visible.

One stocking was half ingulfed in the blankets, while the other lay so far down on the bed, that he would be obliged to uncover his arm to reach it; but he thought of poor suffering humanity, and determined on making the sacrifice.

Turning his eyes in the direction of the window, he saw, to his consternation, that it was snowing, and straightway fell to pitying the poor Irish lads who were obliged, by clearing the sidewalks and crossings, to pick up a stray shilling.

"There ought to be some machine to save these half-frozen creatures from such employment during the cold weather. Now, if I could invent one, I might gain a medal from the well-to-do-inthe-world labor-saving Society; stay-let me see-I think the thing might easily be done." Here Mr. Crawley fell to thinking, or rather dreaming, and ten o'clock came and went, and he took another look at the window, and drew the warm covering still closer, and thought the day was bitter cold.

That very morning, Rose had returned home, and her first thought was of the sick widow and her children. "No doubt, Cousin Cathcart has kept his promise," thought Rose, as she hastened on through the snow. "How pleasant it will be for poor Mrs. Brown to have a cheerful fire this gloomy morning, and how it has gladdened his benevolent heart to send those little delica

cies which are so gratefully received by the sick; perhaps he is kind cousin!"

there now,

As Rose approached the house, she looked up at the little window, expecting to see her favorite Nelly, but no glad young face welcomed her return. With a subdued feeling she ascended the creaking stairs; a low sobbing reached her ear, and as she stopped to listen, the door of the widow's room was opened, and a poor-looking woman came out, holding Mrs. Brown's youngest child by the hand, and followed by little Nelly. When the latter saw Rose, her suppressed grief burst forth.

"Oh, Miss Brandon, mother's dead! mother's dead!" Rose was shocked. In the cold gloomy room lay all that was mortal of the poor widow. The cupboard was open, and on one of the shelves lay a few crusts of dry bread. Some half-burnt shavings were scattered on the hearth. And this was all-on this wintry morning, these were all the comforts within reach of the dying woman!

"Oh change! oh wondrous change!

Burst are the prison bars;

This moment there, so low,

So agonized, and now
Beyond the stars!"

"Oh, Nelly," said Rose, as she held the hand of the weeping child, "why did you not go to the gentleman I told you of? why did you not ask Mr. Crawley to come and see your mother?"

"I did, Miss Brandon; I did go ever so many times, but the man told me I couldn't see Mr. Crawley, for he wasn't up yet,

and it was eleven o'clock too before I went. And he promised to come this morning, but he didn't; and then Miss Smith ran all the way there, and he was in bed yet; and oh, Miss Brandon, I told the man last night that mother was dying."

After all, Aunt Prudence and brother Frank were right.

"And he could do this," thought Rose, "he who was ever writing and talking of making sacrifices in the cause of poor suffering humanity; he could slothfully draw the covering of his curtained bed on such a day as this, when he knew his aid was wanted—when he knew, too, it was wanted for a sorrow-crushed, poverty-stricken woman who was dying! Out upon such false philanthropy! Thank heaven, I have learned, ere too late, the sluggish, selfish heartlessness of Cathcart Crawley !"

THE PRAIRIE ON FIRE*

BY GEO. P. MORRIS.

THE shades of evening closed around
The boundless prairies of the west,
As, grouped in sadness on the ground,
A band of pilgrims leaned to rest;
Upon the tangled weeds were laid,

The mother and her youngest born,

Who slept, while others watched and prayed,
And thus the weary night went on.

Thick darkness shrouded earth and sky-
When, on the whispering winds there came,

The Teton's shrill and thrilling cry,

And heaven was pierced with shafts of flame.

This ballad is founded, in part, upon a thrilling story of the West, related by Mr. Cooper, the novelist.