nto the small dwelling of the lighthouse.

The remains of the feast, the old wine opened in honor of Grace,
helped to reanimate the poor shipwrecked sufferers who owed their
lives to the young girl.

"Never was a birthday," as the good mother often said, "so full of
terrible and joyful emotions; never was one more blessed."

"That is a right good story, Mother," said Harry. "Was Grace Darling
a real person?"

"Yes," said his mother, "and many more beautiful stories are told of
her, and all true. She was a noble creature."

"One more story, dear Mother," said the boys. "We have a good deal
of time, yet."

"Many years ago," said the mother, "I was making a visit in a family
where what I am going to relate to you took place. I wrote it all
down, and I will now read it to you from my manuscript book."

A TRUE STORY.

One cold, stormy evening in the middle of winter, a family,
consisting of four children and their parents, were gathered round a
bright, blazing fire. One merry-looking little girl was sitting with
a large, beautiful cat in her lap, which she was stroking, while
Miss Puss was purring her satisfaction at her happy lot. An older
girl was assisting her mother, who was employed at some needlework.
The oldest boy was getting his lesson. The youngest was sitting on
his father's knee. "How the wind roars!" said little Robert, as a
tremendous blast came swelling and moaning over the fields and
rushed against their dwelling, which, saving one old elm tree that
bent its protecting branches over it, stood all alone, exposed to
the shock of the wind against it. "Shan't we blow over, Father?"
said the child. "No, dear; we have stood higher winds than this."
"Now it dies away," said Helen, as, for a moment, she stopped
caressing her favorite. "The storm is taking breath," said Ned; "now
you can hear it a great way off; it sounds like a troop of horse
galloping up--now it comes nearer and nearer. Hurrah! there it comes
again! hurrah! Hear the poor old elm creak and groan, and hear the
icicles rattling down. I hope none of the branches will break, but I
am afraid the ice is too heavy for them." "Think of poor old Fanny
to-night," said Julia, the elder girl, "in her little cottage, and
the walls so thin. Mother, what will she do?" "Her house is so small
that the wind seems to pass her by," said the mother, "and, when it
is so cold as it is to-night, the poor soul goes to bed, and lies
there till it is warmer.