her Brighthopes.

Anything the old clergyman said in a facetious vein was sure to raise a
laugh. When silence was restored, Job replied,

"Very good! capital!"--in his soft half-whisper, and rubbing his hands.
"And I am thankful that, although my head was turned then, only my leg
has been turned since. My folly was cut off with my offending member,
and my ambition was buried with it."

The company let Job talk in this way a good while. It was refreshing to
hear him; and he delighted to be garrulous. There was not a happier
heart present than his; and its simple philosophy and genial humor
flowed out and mingled in such a sunny, babbling brook, that no one
desired it should be checked.

But at length Job himself refused to talk any more.

"I'm pumped dry," said he. "If you want anything more from me, Father
Brighthopes will have to _prime_ me. I haven't another joke that isn't
musty; and now, I say, we'll have a regular-built speech from the old
patriarch. Silence!" cried Job, tapping his wooden leg; "attention,
every one! Father Brighthopes, we wait to hear from you."

The old clergyman, having sat down upon the grass, was so tangled up in
the children, who clung to his neck and arms, that he could not arise to
respond.

"Georgie," said Mrs. Royden, in a tone of gentle reproach, "you
shouldn't lie upon Father Brighthopes. Get down, Willie. Lizzie, you are
too big to be hanging around his neck."

"She is crowning him with a wreath of flowers," murmured Hepsy, who was
comfortably seated in the midst of the group.

The poor girl's health was much improved; there was a faint flush on her
cheeks; but, although in good spirits, she had scarcely spoken before
since dinner, having been absorbed in weaving the wreath for the old
man's venerable and beloved head.

At length he was crowned, the children released him, and he got up,
radiant and beautiful, with his young and hopeful spirit shining through
his glorious old face.

We wish there had been a reporter on the spot. That speech would well
be worth preserving, word for word. But we are able to give only a
meager outline of it, very imperfect, and without regard to the order in
which the sentiments--like so many waves of liquid light--rippled upon
the hearts of his hearers.

XXX.

THE OLD CLERGYMAN'S FAREWELL.

The speaker was about to bid farewell, he said, to all those kind
friends. (Sensation.) He would leave them, and be soon forgotten. (Cries
o