ling to
get money; and then Nettie would cry for fear her mother would get
sick, and then they'd all kiss each other, and almost _wish_ that God
would let them die (then) just as they were--_together_.

* * *

Again the silver harvest-moon shines down upon the silent city. Through
a curtained window its rays fall softly upon a bed, where lies a lady
sleeping. See! she smiles! _What! Nettie's mother smile?_ Ah, yes; for
_Nettie's_ golden head is pillowed on her breast. Nettie's loving arms
are twined about her neck. God is good;--the "barrel of meal" does not
fail, nor the "cruse of oil." Well may Nettie's mother smile, now that
all she craves on earth is in her clasping arms.

SELFISH MATTHEW.

Such a selfish boy as Matthew was! You wouldn't have given a fig to
play with him. He had carpenters' tools and books, and chequers and
chess, and drawing materials, and balls and kites, and little ships and
skates, and snow-shovels and sleds. Oh! I couldn't tell you _all_ he
had, if I talked a week.

Well, if you went in of a Saturday afternoon to play with him, he'd
watch all these things as closely as a cat would a mouse; and if you
went within shooting distance of them, he'd sing out,--"D-o-n-'t;
t-h-a-t-'s m-i-n-e!" Of course it wasn't much fun to go and see him.
You'd got to play everything he wanted, or he'd pout and say he
wouldn't play at all. He had slices of cake, that he had hoarded up
till they were as hard as his heart; and cents, and dimes, and half
dimes, that he used to handle and jingle and count over, like any
little miser. All the beggars in the world couldn't have coaxed one out
of his pocket had they been starving to death.

Then Matthew was such a cry-baby. I love a _brave_ boy. He'd go
screaming to his mother if he got a scratch, as if a wild tiger were
after him; and if you said anything to him about it, he'd pout, and
stick out his lips so far that you might have hung your hat on 'em! It
was like drawing teeth to get him to go across the room to hand you a
newspaper. He ought to have had a little world all to himself, hadn't
he?

Well, I used to pity him--there was nothing child-like about him. He
always seemed to me like a little wizzled-up, miserly old man. He never
tossed his cap up in the air, and laughed a good hearty laugh; he never
sprang or ran, or climbed or shouted; no--he crawled round as if he had
lead weights on his heels, and talk