far, in the mild
eyes that seem to look encouragingly upon him. Good old man, it would
puzzle the saints to find fault with any of thy pure impulses!

He wonders if Nannie ever went to school, and if she has read the
Pilgrim's Progress? He'll take it round there some day, her education
mustn't be neglected, and she can't be spared from Winnie to go to
school now. He hasn't any body to care for, and why shouldn't he make
those children his especial charge! Puss rises slowly from the rug,
where she has been lying curled up this long time, shakes herself, and
puts her two fore paws on Mr. Bond's knees, as if to remind him that he
has something to care for and cherish, and then walks back again and
puts herself in the old position, while her great orbs are rolled up at
the master.

"It will not make any difference to you, puss," says Mr. Bond, leaning
over and stroking the warm fur; "there's milk enough for you and Winnie
too, and she'd have done it, I know," pointing upward to the portrait,
as if the cat understood it all; then he took his hat and cane in his
hand and went down stairs, stopping at his landlady's room to tell her
"if a poor little girl with a baby should come to see him, not to send
her away, but to let her go to his room and rest."

"Pretty piece of business!" said Mrs. Kinalden, as he left the house;
"tisn't any beggars' brats I'll have tracking the dirt up my stair-ways,
I'll warrant ye!" and she flourished her soup-ladle as if in defiance of
all such encroaches upon her blessed domain.

Mr. Bond didn't hear nor see it, though, for his elastic step was away
down the street, and if he had he would have thought it only Mrs.
Kinalden's way, and would not have taken offense at it. There was so
much that was bright and good in his own heart that he could not feel
the ill that was in other people's natures, and his life passed as
smoothly as if he were not continually subjected to petty annoyances
from those about him who imposed upon his forbearance and amiability.

Earth was beautiful to him, and so was life; there had been but one dark
spot in his whole existence, and that was when Betty Lathrop twined her
young arms around his great neck and told him she must die.

Her grave was very green, though, and there were roses of his own
planting around it, and a pure white lily; and there was a holy light
always visible to him just above it, as of an angel with glorious wings
hovering. He didn't feel as if