hat of being the cause of misery to others,
through one's own wrong-doing. After a few moments, he started up
and exclaimed, "I must send word to the poor fellow that the money
is found and his innocence proved; let me do what I can to repair
the evil I have caused. If I write to the postmaster and tell him
the story, he will take the poor fellow back again. I have some
money of my own, Father, to pay for the travelling expenses of the
boy and his mother. All perhaps may yet be right. I can work. I will
do any thing for them. Poor Harry Brown--so proud and so honest! O,
Father! I hate myself. But how shall I send him word? the post is
not certain; let me think. Bill Smith said he was going to the war,
if he could get money enough for his journey. He would take my
letter. I'll be after him, and get him off in no time."

Away flew George; he gave Bill Smith the money, told him the story,
and sent him off for that very night, George then wrote to the
postmaster, and implored him to write immediately to Harry, and
offer him again the place in the office. George went to bed with a
heavy heart, still with the hope that poor Harry had not been
killed.

Now let us follow Harry and his old mother to Mexico. Many weeks
have passed since we left George mourning his fault, and sending up
prayers for the life of poor Harry. It is a few days after a battle.
On the ground, in the corner of a small tent, lies a poor soldier.
Bandages stained with blood are lying about. The poor sufferer is
very pale, and his face shows marks of pain. An old woman, whose
face is full of anxious love, sits by his side and holds his hand.
The young man lifts the old withered hand to his lips and kisses it;
he looks up through the thin canvas of his tent, and says, "Thank
God, dear Mother, that you are here with me now to take care of me,
else I think I should die. Forgive my rashness; if I live will yet
be a good son to you. I knew was not a thief, and that ought to have
been enough for me. I was wrong to be so angry, and to forget you,
whom I ought to have staid by and taken care of, as I promised
father I would. Forgive me, dear Mother. Perhaps I shall be a better
man with one leg than I was with two."

While the poor fellow, who had lost his leg the first day he went to
battle, was slowly uttering these words, the tears were running fast
down the hollow cheeks of his old mother, but gentle, quiet tears,
as though the heart of her who shed them was