at Mrs.
Knights' farm would prove to be rainy in the afternoon.

THE STUDENT'S DREAM.

Arthur Wilton had been for several years a student; but he was one of
the plodding sort, who make but slow progress. The principal barrier to
his improvement arose from one defect in his character; and that was the
habit in which he constantly indulged, of deploring the past, without
making any very strong efforts toward amendment in the future. He was
one evening seated in his room; a ponderous volume lay open on his
study-table, and for a time he vainly tried to fix his attention
thereon, till finally he closed the book, and leaning back in his chair,
his brows contracted, and the lines about his mouth grew tense, as if
his thoughts were anything but pleasing. As usual he was bemoaning his
misspent hours.

"Ah," said he, speaking in soliloquy, "they are gone, never more to
return, the careless happy days of childhood, the sunny period of youth,
and the aspiring dreams of mature manhood. I once indulged in many
ambitious dreams of fame, and those dreams have never been realized.
Many with whom I set out on equal ground have outstripped me in the race
of life, and here am I alone. Many who were once my inferiors have
nearly overtaken me, and doubtless they too will soon pass me by. What I
very much prize is a true friend, and yet no friend approaches with a
word of sympathy or encouragement; would that some would counsel me, as
to how I may better my condition." Thus far had Arthur Wilton proceeded
in his soliloquy, when his eyelids were weighed down by drowsiness, and
he soon sank into a deep slumber. In his dream an aged man, with a most
mild and venerable countenance stood before him, who, addressing him by
name, said: "Thy heart is full of sorrow; but if you will listen to, and
profit by my words, your sorrow shall be turned into joy. You have been
grieving over the hours which have been run to waste, without pausing to
reflect, that while you have been occupied with these unavailing
regrets, another hour has glided away past your recall forever; and will
be added to your already lengthened list of opportunities misimproved.
You grieve that your name is not placed on the lists of fame. Cease from
thy fruitless longings. Discharge faithfully your present duties, and if
you merit fame it will certainly be awarded you. You also complain that
no friend is near you. Have you ever truly sought a friend, by the
unwearied exer