silent stars.

'I were just lookin' at th' parish candles, as my faither co's
'em; they burn breetsome to-neet, sir.'

'Looking at them, or looking for them?' queried the somewhat
perplexed divine. 'Can I bring the candles to you?'

'Yo' cornd bring 'em ony nearer than they are. They're up yon,
sithi,' and so saying the child pointed to the evening sky.

'So you call the stars "parish candles," do you?' smilingly
inquired Mr. Penrose. 'I never heard them called by that name
before.'

'It's my faither co's 'em "parish candles," not me,' said the
child.

'And what do you call them?'

'Happen if I tell yo' yo'll laugh at me, as my faither does.'

'No, I shall not. You need not be afraid.'

'Well, I co 'em angels' een (eyes).'

'A far prettier name than your father gives to them, Milly.'

'An' what dun yo' think hoo co's th' dew as it lies fresh on th'
moors in a mornin'?' asked the mother, who was sitting in one of
the shadowed corners of the room.

'I cannot say, I am sure, Mrs. Lord. Milly has such wonderful
names for everything.'

'Why, hoo co's it angels' tears, and says it drops daan fro' th'
een o' them as watches fro' aboon at the devilment they see on th'
earth.'

'Milly, you are a poetess!' exclaimed the delighted minister. 'But
do you really think the angels weep? Would it not destroy the joy
of that place where sorrow and sighing are no more?'

'Well, yo' see, it's i' this road, Mr. Penrose. They say as th'
angels are glad when bad folk turn good, and I suppose they'll
fret theirsels a bit if th' bad folk keeps bad; and there's mony
o' that mak' abaat here.'

Mr, Penrose was silent. Once more Milly was, unknown to herself
furnishing him with thoughts; for, again and again, from the
sickbed of this child had he gone forth with fresh fields of
revelation opening before him. True, the idea of heaven's grief at
earth's sin was not a pleasant one; but if joy at righteousness
and repentance, why not grief at wickedness and hardness of heart?

While thus musing in the quiet of the darkening chamber, Milly
turned from her contemplation of the stars with the somewhat
startling question:

'Mr. Penrose, dun yo' think there'll be yethbobs (tufts of
heather) i' heaven?'

'That's bothered her a deal latly,' broke in the mother, with a
choking voice. 'Hoo sez hoo noan cares for heaven if hoo cornd
play on th' moors, and yer th' wind, and poo yethbobs when hoo
gets there. What dun yo' think abaat it,