out ag'in
to me: "'Ome ag'in, Jim: happy, happy 'ome!"

LITTLE PEACE.

BY NORA RYEMAN.

In the heart of England stands a sleepy hollow called "Green Corner,"
and in this same sleepy hollow stands a fine old English manor house
styled "Green Corner Manor." It belongs to the Medlicott family, who
have owned it for generations. In their picture gallery hangs a most
singular picture, which is known far and wide as "The Portrait of Little
Peace." It depicts a beautiful child in the quaint and picturesque
costume of the age of King Charles II. A lamb stands by her side, and a
tame ringdove is perched on her wrist. Her eyes are deeply, darkly blue,
the curls which "fall adown her back are yellow, like ripe corn."
Beneath this portrait in tarnished golden letters are these words of
Holy Writ, "Blessed are the peacemakers," and if you read the chronicles
of the Medlicott family you will read the history of this child. It was
written by Dame Ursula, the wife of Godfrey Medlicott, and runs as
under:--

"It was New Year's Eve, and my heart was heavy, so also was my
husband's. For 'Verily our house had been left unto us desolate.' Our
son Hilary had died in France, and our daughter, Grace, slept in the
chancel of the parish church with dusty banners once borne by heroic
Medlicotts waving over her marble tomb. 'Would God, that I had died for
thee, my boy,' said dead Hilary's father when he looked at the empty
chair in the chimney corner; 'and, my darling, life is savourless
without thee,' I cried in bitterness of spirit, as I looked at the
little plot of garden ground which had been known as Mistress Gracie's
garden when my sweet one lived. Scarcely had this cry escaped my lips
when a most strange thing befel. Seated on the last of the terrace steps
was a little child, who as I passed her stretched out her hand and
caught fast hold of my gown. I looked down, and there, beside me, was a
most singular and beautiful child. The moonlight fell on her small, pale
face and long, yellow hair, and I saw that she was both poorly and
plainly clad. 'What do you want, my little maid?' I asked. 'You, madam,'
she said serenely. 'From whence have you come?' was my next query. 'From
a prison in London town,' was the strange reply. Doubtless this child
(so I reasoned) was the daughter of some poor man who had suffered for
conscience' sake; and, mayhap, some person who pitied his sad plight had
taken the girl and thrown her on our charity