not a single flower, much less a wreath or cross on the little
black-draped coffin--so sad, so piteously desolate a funeral it has
seldom been my lot to see in Paris. Yet poor as it was, it met with the
outward marks of respect and sympathy which I often wish we could see in
England, for every head was uncovered as it passed on its sorrowful way.
I stood still for an instant to watch it; suddenly a small figure,
rushing across the road, darting nimbly in front of a quickly advancing
carriage, as if afraid of being too late, caught my eyes. It was my
little friend of the violets! There was no mistaking him--and his
grandfather's, it seemed to me, almost familiar figure, waiting and
looking after the child from the other side of the road. What is the boy
in such a hurry for? Ah--I see now, and my own eyes are not free from
tears.

Breathless and eager he runs up to the poor little procession, with
blushing face and gentle hands he lays on the tiny coffin his treasured
violets--beautiful in themselves, doubly beautiful as the gift of a
sweet and pitiful heart--and without waiting for the thanks ready to
burst forth from the over-laden hearts of the two parents, hastens back
again to his old grandfather, whose face I can distinguish lit up with a
smile of tender approval.

"God bless him," the poor father murmurs. I am near enough to hear
it--"God bless him," the weeping mother repeats.

"God bless him," I whisper to myself.

"Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these My brethren,
ye have done it unto Me."

[Illustration]

A CANARY TRAGEDY.

[Illustration]

When I was a little girl--that is about three years ago--I am now
thirteen--my own particular pets were a pair of canaries. We had lots of
other pets; it would take me a very long time merely to give you the
list of them even without telling you anything about them, and all their
adventures and funny ways. But a good many of them had in one way or
another come to grief, poor things, and as my brothers grew older and
had less time to take care of them, my mother said we must really give
up having so many.

[Illustration]

So one summer, just before the holidays, there was a regular
flitting--the turtle-doves we gave to a little neighbour, a very gentle
boy, who we knew would be kind to them; the old crow was taken to a
house more in the country than ours, where there were plenty of nice,
dark, crowy-looking trees; the rabbits were al