sure as
formerly. His mood was sad and his step feeble; although the air was
only clear and bracing, it sent a chill through his weakened frame,
turning what had once been his favourite recreation into positive
pain. The variety met with in the streets had no power to attract his
attention; the pictures in the windows had lost their charms; the
flashing waters of the noble bay covered with vessels, from whose
mast-heads floated the flags of many nations, failed to awaken his
admiration; it requires lightness of heart to enjoy the beauty spread
around us.

Thus, depressed in body and spirit, he wandered on, mechanically,
noticing nothing until he had nearly reached No. 200. Some one called
him. It was little Ned Graham, who, as usual, was getting pieces of
boards and chips at a new building which was going up. Very thin
indeed was his clothing, and far from healthy were his looks; but the
natural buoyancy, which even the hard hand of poverty could not
entirely crush, remained, and his whole countenance lighted up at the
sight of his friend William.

"What now, Ned?" said the latter as a ray of cheerfulness shot over
his sad heart, on seeing the happiness meeting with himself gave to
the boy; "where are you going so far from home, bare-footed and half
bare-legged, on such a cold day as this?"

"My feet are a little red," said Ned, looking down at his red-hued
supporters; "but I don't mind it much, when I can get such heaps of
wood for the carrying. There was a fire up our way not long ago, and I
got ever so much. We have a great pile now, and grandmother can keep
the fire going. I want to carry all I can before the snow comes, for I
don't expect to have any shoes. But why have you stayed away so long?
Mrs. Bradley gave us the pennies you sent, but grandmother said she
'wanted to see yourself to thank you.'"

"I have done nothing worth thanks, Ned," said William. "I only wish I
could."

"Grandmother said you had been a good friend to us, although you are
but a boy, and only a shoemaker's ''prentice,'" rejoined Ned; "for you
did not only send us the pennies, but Mrs. Bradley too. She has been
so good to us; and when we thank her, she says we ought rather to
thank you. She gave me these trousers; and although they are too
short, I do not care for that, or that the street boys call me 'duck
legs.'"

"It is our heavenly Father whom you ought to thank, rather than either
of us," added William, not noticing the last par