d he was weeping. The captain
advanced and spoke kindly to him.

'Oh, sir,' said the invalid, looking up, his face lit up with hope and
expectation, 'are you the captain, and will you take me? The passengers
shun me, and are so unkind. You see, sir, I am dying; but if I can live
to see my mother, I shall die happy. She lives at B----, sir, and my
journey is more than half performed. I am a poor printer, and the only
child of her in whose arms I would wish to die.'

'You shall go,' said the captain, 'if I lose every passenger for the
trip.'

By this time the whole crowd of passengers were grouped around the
gangway, with their baggage piled on the pier, waiting for the decision
of the captain, before engaging their passage.

A moment more, and that decision was made known, for they saw him coming
from the cars with the sick man cradled in his strong arms. Pushing
directly through the crowd with his burden, he ordered a mattress to be
put in the cabin, where he laid the invalid with all the care of a
parent.

Then, scarcely deigning to cast a look at the astonished crowd, he
called loudly to his men: 'Let go!'

But a new feeling seemed to possess the passengers, that of shame and
contrition at their own inhumanity. With a common impulse each seized
his own baggage, and went in a shamefaced way on board the boat.

In a short time a message was sent to the captain, asking his presence
in the cabin. He went, and one of the passengers, speaking for the rest,
with faltering voice told the rough captain that he had taught them a
lesson--that they felt humble before him, and they asked his
forgiveness.

W. Y.

BOUQUETS.

Buttercups and daisies,
Violets and May,
Pimpernels and cowslips,
Make a sweet bouquet.
Not a rose among them;
Nought the garden yields.
Yet a lot of beauty
Taken from the fields,
Gathered in the sunshine,
Through the happy hours--
What a sweet bouquet, dears,
Made of simple flowers!

Patience and forgiveness,
Kindness to the weak;
Willing in our labour
All the happy week;
No exalted actions
Striving after praise,
Yet a lot of beauty
From life's lowly ways,
Gathered through the day, dear,
By the heart that heeds--
What a sweet bouquet, dear!
Made of simple deeds.

J. L.

McLEOD OF CLERE.

Founded on Fact.

I.

The moonlight lay in soft brilli