esting-place.

"He was a sugar-plum of a dog," said Prudy, "and I can't help crying."

"I don't want to help it," said Grace; "we ought to cry."

"What makes me feel the worst," said sober little Susy, "he won't go to
heaven."

"Not forever'n ever amen?" gasped Prudy, in a low voice: "wouldn't he if
he had a nice casket, and a plate on it neither?"

The sky and earth were very lovely that evening, and it seemed as if
everybody ought to be heart-glad. I doubt if Horace had ever thought
before what a beautiful world he lived in, and how glorious a thing it
is to be alive! He could run about and do what he pleased with himself;
but alas, poor Pincher!

The sun was setting, and the river looked uncommonly full of little
sparkles. The soft sky, and the twinkling water, seemed to be smiling at
each other, while a great way off you could see the dim blue mountains
rising up like clouds. Such a lovely world! Ah! poor Pincher.

It looked very much as if Horace were really turning over a new leaf. He
was still quite trying sometimes, leaving the milk-room door open when
puss was watching for the cream-pot, or slamming the kitchen door with a
bang when everybody needed fresh air. He still kept his chamber in a
state of confusion,--"muss," Grace called it,--pulling the drawers out
of the bureau, and scattering the contents over the floor; dropping his
clothes anywhere it happened, and carrying quantities of gravel up
stairs in his shoes.

Aunt Louise still scolded about him; but even she could not help seeing
that on the whole he was improving. He "cared" more and "forgot" less.
He could always learn easily, and now he really tried to learn. His
lessons, instead of going through his head "threading my grandmother's
needle," went in and staid there. The blue book got a few marks, it is
true, but not so many as at first.

You may be sure there was not a good thing said or done by Horace which
did not give pleasure to his mother. She felt now as if she lived only
for her children; if God would bless her by making them good, she had
nothing more to desire. Grace had always been a womanly, thoughtful
little girl, but at this time she was a greater comfort than ever; and
Horace had grown so tender and affectionate, that it gratified her very
much. He was not content now with "canary kisses;" but threw his arms
around her neck very often, saying, with his lips close to her cheek,--

"Don't feel bad, ma: I'm going to take care o