id the
Panther, quietly. "Now, mamma, you see red fox know, after all."

Minny brought her baby for him to kiss. Little Carry's dark eyes were full
of tears, for, like most babies, she felt the influence of sorrow she
could not understand. She did not scream, as another child would, but hid
her face on her mother's bosom and sobbed quietly, like a grown-up woman.
My two little boys, understanding all at once that their old friend was
going away, burst out crying.

"Hush! hush!" he said, gently. "You be good boys to your mother. Say
'good-bye.'"

We kissed him, keeping back the lamentations which we knew would trouble
him.

"Good-bye," he said, softly, and then he spoke some few words in his own
tongue, as Minny told me afterward, about going to his lost children. Then
a smile came over his face, a look of sweet relief and comfort softened
the stern features, the hand that had held mine so close slowly relaxed;
and with a sigh he was gone.

The old minister gently closed his eyes. "My dear," said Mr. Lawrence to
Minny, who was in an agony of grief, "God knows, but it was His Son who
said, 'Greater love hath no man than this--that a man lay down his life
for his friends!'"

When we buried the old chief we wrote those words on the stone we placed
over his grave.

Since then the New Year's Eve brings back to me very vividly the memory of
the augury that so strangely accomplished its own fulfillment.

CLARA F. GUERNSEY.

Louie.

The great river was flowing peacefully down to the sea, opening its blue
tides at the silver fretting of the bar into a shallow expanse some miles
in width, a part of which on either side overlay stretches where the
submerged eel-grass lent a tint of chrysoprase to the sheathing flow, and
into which one gazed, half expecting to see so ideal a depth peopled by
something other than the long ribbons of the weed streaming out on the
slow current--the only cool sight, albeit, beneath the withering heat of
the day across all that shining extent. Far down the shores, on the right,
a line of low sand-hills rose, protecting the placid harbor from sea and
storm with the bulwark of their dunes, whose yellow drifts were ranged by
the winds in all fantastic shapes, and bound together by ropes of the wild
poison-ivy and long tangles of beach-grass and the blossoming purple pea,
and which to-day cast back the rays of the sun as though they were of
beaten brass. Above these hills the white lig