least a dozen persons in the adjacent seats to stare
wonderingly at me. "I've something to put in."

Another prodigious effort, and the knot yielded.

The man passed the box first to father, and he put in a bill. He
glanced at me, evidently thinking a child would hardly have money to
give, and was about to go on; but I looked beseechingly towards him,
and he stopped and extended the box to me. In an instant the entire
contents of my handkerchief were emptied into it--as much money as my
two chubby hands could hold.

Father looked down upon me, and a half-amused smile flitted over his
face, as he beheld my unexpected act.

After we had returned home, father sat down by the window in an easy
chair, and calling me to him, placed me upon his knee.

"Gracie, dear," said he, smilingly, "tell me how it happened you put
so much money into the contribution-box. It must have taken nearly all
you had."

"It _was_ all I had, papa. It was the money I saved in my bank, and
you told me I could spend it just as I pleased."

"O, yes, dear; I am glad to have you; only it was a good deal for a
little girl."

"I gave it because I wanted to please God," I replied with earnest
solemnity. "That dreadful night, when we all thought you would die,
dear papa, I promised God I would be a better girl than I have ever
been before. I would be more kind, generous, and obedient, and would
try and please him all my life, if he would only let _you_ get well;
and I gave my money to-day because I am so glad and grateful to him."

"Precious child," said he tenderly and with much emotion, drawing me
close to him, "and I am glad, and grateful too, for the rich gift of
my dear little daughter."

SARAH P. BRIGHAM.

THE WAY TO WALK.

As I tramped over a stony path,
One cloudy morning early,
I learned the only way to step,
To keep from being surly.

Don't hurry, and stride, and come down hard
Upon the rolling pebbles,
But lightly step; and that's the way
To charm all kinds of rebels.

Don't hurry, and stride, and come down hard,
Even on troublesome people;
But carry your feet, and tread on air,
As though you lived on a steeple.

There are rolling stones in every path,
And rocks with jagged edges,
Which, if we gently touch, may turn
To flowers and bending sedges.

M. R. W.