w it did burn! But what was
the meaning of tears, and he looking so pleased? Mary could not
understand it.

"Do read up, Stephen," she exclaimed.

With a voice broken by the effort he had to make all the time to
keep from crying, Stephen read,

"MADAM--Put away your mangle-that son of yours is worth mangling
for; but it is time to rest now. The note is for your present wants;
in future your son may supply you. I let him go to-night; but I did
not mean him to stay away, if he chooses to come back. I don't see
that I can do well without him. But I don't want him back if he
would rather go anywhere else; I know plenty that would be glad to
have him. He has been seen in the shop, and noticed, and such lads
are not always to be got. If he chooses to come back to me, he won't
repent. I've no sons of my own, thank God. He knows what I am; I am
better than I was, and I may be better still. I've a queer way of
doing things, but it is my way, and can't be helped. Tell him I'll
be glad to have him back to-morrow, if he likes. Yours,

"J. W."

"I knew it!" exclaimed Mary, triumphantly; "I always said so! I knew
you would get on!"

Stephen did go back to his eccentric master, and he never had any
reason to repent. He _got on_ even beyond his mother's most soaring
hopes. The shop eventually became his own, and he lived a
flourishing and respected tradesman. We need scarcely add that his
mother had no further use for her mangle, and that she was a very
proud and a very happy woman.

DO THEY MISS ME?

Do they miss me at home? Do they miss me?
'Twould be an assurance most dear,
To know at this moment some loved one
Was saying, "I wish he was here!"
To feel that the group at the fireside
Were thinking of me as I roam!
Oh, yes! 'twould be joy beyond measure,
To know that they missed me at home.

When twilight approaches--the season
That ever was sacred to song--
Does some one repeat my name over,
And sigh that I tarry so long?
And is there a chord in the music,
That's missed when my voice is away?
And a chord in each glad heart that waketh
Regret at my wearisome stay?

Do they place me a chair at the table,
When evening's home pleasures are nigh!
And lamps are lit up in the parlour,
And stars in the calm azure sky?
And when the "Good Nights" are repeated,
And each lays them calmly to sleep,
Do they think of the absent, and waft me
A