er's
heart!

"Where is my stepmother? I would see and try to comfort her. Oh! let
this day be one of perfect reconciliation. Let us make it a
thanksgiving from the inmost heart."

And now may we all, who have aught of ill dwelling in our hearts, go
and be of kindly feeling one toward the other again. Let not the
coming Thanksgiving's sun go down on our wrath. Let it not be merely a
thanksgiving in words--a day of feasting--but a heart's feasting on
peace and good will.

THE END.

* * * * *

THE IRISH REFUGEE.

The only son of his mother, and she was a widow.--Luke vii. 12.

Long years shall see thee roaming
A sad and weary way,
Like traveler tired at gloaming
Of a sultry summer day.
But soon a home will greet thee,
Though low its portals be,
And ready kinsmen meet thee,
And peace that will not flee.--PERCIVAL.

It was a lovely morning, that last Saturday in July, 1849. The sun had
not yet risen when our family party, consisting of Aunt and Uncle
Clive, Cousin Christine and myself, took seats at an early
breakfast-table. A capacious carriage, well packed with presents for
country cousins, stood at the door, ready to convey us to Virginia, to
spend the month of August. We, a merry set of grown-up children, were
too delighted with our prospective pleasure to eat anything, and so we
soon left the table and put on our bonnets and hats, preparatory to a
start. We entered the carriage.

"Now, then, are we all ready?" asked Uncle Clive.

"Yes," replied aunt.

"Has nothing been forgotten?"

"No--but stay! Where is Cousin Peggy's cap, Chrissy?"

"There--pinned up in that paper to the roof of the carriage. Don't hit
your head against it, uncle."

"Clive, where did you put the basket of bread and butter and cold
chicken?"

"There--in the bottom of the carriage. Be careful, now, my dear, or
you will get your feet into it."

"No, I shan't. But hadn't you better put the bandbox with Martha's
bonnet inside here?"

"Indeed, mother," interposed Miss Chrissy, "there is no room for it;
for Cousin Peggy's bundle is on one side and the keg of crackers on
the other; my feet are resting on the caddy of tea, and the loaf of
sugar and paper of coffee are in my lap!"

"There! let's get along," said Uncle Clive, impatiently. "I declare,
the sun is already half an hour high, and a ride of forty-five or
fifty miles before us. We shall not