e youngest, clapping
her hands. "Why don't we have mince pies, mamma?" she said, taking hold
of her mother's apron and looking up at her.

"Papa likes mince pies, I know; and so do I. Don't you like mince pies,
George?"

George, who was old enough to understand better than the rest of them
the true cause of the privations they suffered, saw that Hetty's
questions had brought tears to his mother's eyes, and, with a
thoughtfulness beyond his years, sought to turn the conversation into
another channel.

But the words of the children had brought to the mind of Mrs. Foster a
memory of other times,--of the many happy New Years she had enjoyed
with her husband, their board crowned with the blessings of the year.
Her dim eyes turned from her neglected little ones, and fell upon a
small ornament that stood upon the mantle. It was the New Year's gift
of her husband in better days. It reminded her too strongly of the
contrast between that time and the gloomy present. She went quickly
from the room, to weep unheard and alone.

New Year's morning at length broke clear and cold. Mrs. Foster was up
betimes. It was no holiday to her. Early in the day her husband was to
come home, and though she could not help looking and wishing for him to
come, yet the thought of him produced a pressure in her bosom. She felt
that his presence would only bring for her heart a deeper shadow.

The children had grown eager for him to come. The younger ones talked
of the presents he would bring them, while George thought of a book,
yet dared hardly hope to receive one. At last, Emma descried her father
far down the road, and announced, in a loud voice, his coming. The
heart of the mother throbbed quicker at the word. She went to the
window, where the children crowded, feeling troubled, and yet with
something of the old gladness about her heart. She strained her eyes to
see him, and yet dreaded to fix them upon him too intently, lest more
should be seen than she wished to see. He came nearer and nearer, and
she was yet at the window, her heart beating audibly. Could her eyes
deceive her, or was it indeed so? His form was erect and his step firm,
and, though his clothes were the same, they did not look so untidy.

"Thank God!" she ejaculated silently, yet fervently, as he came nearer
still--"he is sober."

Yes, he was sober.

"Henry!" she could not say another word, as she took his hand when he
came in. Her eyes were full of tears. He pressed her