and the
dear old pines, tall and stately as ever."

"Yes, the pines; that is what I meant, my child. Ah, they have been my
silent monitors ever since that day; you remember it, Annie! Bless you,
child! how much good you did us then."

But Annie was silently crying beside him. John Greylton wiped his eyes,
and then he called his sister Margaret to the window.

"Annie and I have been looking at the old pines, and you can guess what
we were thinking about. As for myself," he added, "I never see those
trees without feeling saddened and rebuked. I never recall that season
of error, without the deepest shame and grief. And still the old pines
stand. Well, Madge, one day they will shade our graves; and of late I
have thought that day would dawn very soon."

Annie Bermond let the curtain fall very slowly forward, and buried
her face in her hands; but the two old pilgrims by her side, John and
Margaret Greylston, looked at each other with a smile of hope and joy.
They had long been "good and faithful servants," and now they awaited
the coming of "the Master," with a calm, sweet patience, knowing it
would be well with them, when He would call them hence.

The pines creaked mournfully in the winter wind, and the stars looked
down upon bleak wastes, and snow-shrouded meadows; yet the red blaze
heaped blithely on the hearth, taking in, in its fair light, the merry
circle sitting side by side, and the thoughtful little group standing so
quietly by the window. And even now the picture fades, and is gone. The
curtain falls--the story of John and Margaret Greylston is ended.

THE WORLD WOULD BE THE BETTER FOR IT.

IF men cared less for wealth and fame,
And less for battle-fields and glory;
If, writ in human hearts, a name
Seemed better than in song and story;
If men, instead of nursing pride,
Would learn to hate and to abhor it--
If more relied
On Love to guide,
The world would be the better for it.

If men dealt less in stocks and lands,
And more in bonds and deeds fraternal;
If Love's work had more willing hands
To link this world to the supernal;
If men stored up Love's oil and wine,
And on bruised human hearts would pour it;
If "yours" and "mine"
Would once combine,
The world would be the better for it.

If more would act the play of Life,
And fewer spoil it in rehearsal;