e depot with a bright light. I started up. It was the
brightest light I ever saw, and seemed to fill the room full of glory. I
could see 'twas a man. He walked to the kneeling figure and touched her
upon the shoulder. She started up and turned her face wildly around. I
heard him say:--

"'Tis train time, ma'am. Come!"

A look of joy came over her face.

"I am ready," she whispered.

"Then give me your pass, ma'am."

She reached him a worn old book, which he took, and from it read
aloud:--

"Come unto me all ye that labor and are heavy laden and I will give you
rest."

"That's the pass over our road, ma'am. Are you ready?"

The light died away, and darkness fell in its place. My hand touched the
stroke of one. Simmons awoke with a start and snatched his lantern. The
whistle sounded down brakes; the train was due. He ran to the corner and
shook the old woman.

"Wake up, marm; 'tis train time."

But she never heeded. He gave one look at the white set face, and,
dropping his lantern, fled.

The up train halted, the conductor shouted "All aboard," but no one made
a move that way.

The next morning, when the ticket agent came, he found her frozen to
death. They whispered among themselves, and the coroner made out the
verdict "apoplexy," and it was in some way hushed up.

But the last look on the sweet old face, lit up with a smile so
unearthly, I keep with me yet; and when I think of the occurrence of
that night, I know she went out on the other train, that never stopped
at the poorhouse.

THE PANSY

ANONYMOUS

Of all the bonny buds that blow,
In bright or cloudy weather,
Of all the flowers that come and go,
The whole twelve moons together,
This little purple pansy brings,
Thoughts of the sweetest, saddest things.

I had a little lover once,
Who used to give me posies;
His eyes were blue as hyacinths,
His lips were red as roses;
And everybody loved to praise
His pretty looks and winsome ways.

The girls that went to school with me
Made little jealous speeches,
Because he brought me royally
His biggest plums and peaches,
And always at the door would wait,
To carry home my books and slate.

They couldn't see--with pout and fling--
"The mighty fascination
About that little snub-nosed thing,
To win such admiration;
As if there weren't a dozen