ess skirt. "She's mine! my own Coachy! and
I'll carry her home in a pail!"

Jumping on a stool, she reached up to a shelf of tin-ware. Grasping a
good-sized pail, she pulled it from its place in such a hurry that half
a dozen milk-pans were dragged off with it. Clattering like crazy things
they whirled to the floor.

"Put my Coachy in there!--put her in!" she commanded, setting the pail
down hard on the stove, and twisting the cover off.

Such a din I never heard. Those tin pans banged and rattled, Bessie's
voice piped high, the boy on the floor broke into a hoarse scream, and
our horse shied and started for home.

"Whoa! whoa!" I shouted, leaping off the steps, and bringing him round
into place again.

Turning to go back to the tragedy in the house, I nearly collided with
Bessie. She was running out with the pail in her hand, and with all the
Beck children following. Thrusting it upon me, she hurried into the
carriage; then reaching after it, she wrapped it in the lap-robe, and
leaned back with a sigh of relief.

During the few minutes that it took us to rattle home I wondered what
was to be done with poor Coachy. I didn't have long to wait. I led the
horse into the stable, and as I was returning I discovered my little
girl sitting on the grass by a rose-bush, with what we had brought at
her feet.

In a trembling voice she asked me if I would please find a shovel. I
found one, and soon stood obedient beside Bessie and the pail.

"Right here, Uncle John," she whispered, flattening the tender grass
beneath the rose-bush with her two dimpled hands--"right here where the
sun shines."

So we dug a grave, and poured in that hot dinner. In it went, gravy and
all--white meat, dark meat, legs, wings, and wish-bone!

* * * * *

Some months went by, and Uncle John came to Featherdale again. As he
strolled through the garden in his purple-flowered flat-heeled slippers
the morning after his arrival, he came to a little lonely mound. A small
white board with scraggly letters on it stood there now. Uncle John
stooped down, held aside the grass, and read, "Coachy," and "Forgive us
our trespasses as we forgive them that trespass against us."

BAPTIZING COPTIC BABIES.

BY SARA KEABLES HUNT.

You have often witnessed the ceremony of infant baptism, when some sweet
baby friend of yours has been brought forward to be christened, and have
thought it a beautiful sight, as it indeed is;