writing of years and years ago. The prayer-book that I had
given her.

"Dear me, sir, you look faint-like," says the dealer; "let me fetch you
a stool, or come in and sit down a bit."

"Can you--tell--me," I gasped, "where you bought this book? Where and
when?"

"Where? Why here. When? Why five minutes ago, along with two or three
more, of no particular value, of a poor little thing that said it was
all her mother had to part with--Stop, sir, stop; why, there she is
coming out of the grocer's shop this very minute. Run after the old
gentleman, James; he'll do himself a mischief, or be run over, or
something."

For I had dashed after the child like a madman, my hat off, the open
book in my hand. James had outrun me though, and was now coming back
with a child--a young girl--poorly clad; oh! so poorly clad; but yet
like Mary--my Mary--on the day I wrote that name in the book still open
in my hand.

"Mary!" I gasped.

"Yes, sir," said the child; "I must make haste home, or my mother will
have no tea."

* * * * *

No, no, I will not dwell on the recollection of that poor room, with its
evidences of want, its signs of suffering; nor of all that might have
been said and was not. By the bedside of the woman whom I had loved and
lost, and who was now passing from the world into the great reality of
life, I had few words to speak. The only witness of the promise I
made--except the Lord and His angels--was the silently weeping girl,
_his_ only remaining child. Almost the only words were:--

"Mary."

"Dick."

And the child stood there clasping her mother's hand--_my_ hand; to be
in future my child and the child of the mother in heaven; and who shall
tell but at the resurrection----

Ah! I hear her foot upon the stair, her sweet voice singing as she
comes--that sweet sweet voice that one day, maybe, will sing me to
sleep.

------------------------------

"Ah-h-h!" sighed Mrs. Parmigan, who had listened to the last two stories
without saying a word but with an expression of wonder. "How you can
remember so much about people I can't imagine; but really, my dear,
these love stories never do end except in the saddest way. Now if I
could only write a tale, which I know is, of course, quite impossible,
it should be every word of it true, and everybody should be as happy as
the day is long."

"But then you see, dear Mrs. Parmigan, that wouldn't be every word
true," s