Then what a poor contemptible creature
he was! But a third chance lay before him. If he failed the third time,
he dared not foreshadow what he must then think of himself! It was bad
enough now--but then!

Alas! it went no better. The moment the sun was down, he fled as if from
a legion of devils.

Seven times in all he tried to face the coming night in the strength of
the past day, and seven times he failed--failed with such increase of
failure, with such a growing sense of ignominy, overwhelming at length
all the sunny hours and joining night to night, that, what with misery,
self-accusation, and loss of confidence, his daylight courage too began
to fade, and at length, from exhaustion, from getting wet, and then
lying out-of-doors all night, and night after night--worst of all, from
the consuming of the deathly fear, and the shame of shame, his sleep
forsook him, and on the seventh morning, instead of going to the hunt,
he crawled into the castle, and went to bed. The grand health, over
which the witch had taken such pains, had yielded, and in an hour or two
he was moaning and crying out in delirium.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

[Illustration: BRINGING CHRISTMAS CHEER.]

[Illustration: LITTLE BO-PEEP FELL FAST ASLEEP, AND DREAMT--]

THE GIFT OF THE BIRDS.

No sweeter child could ever be
Than fair-haired, blue-eyed Cecily.
She loved all things on earth that grew;
The grass, the flowers, the weeds, she knew;
The butterflies around her flew,
That she might see their rainbowed wings.
The very bees and wasps would come
To greet her with a gentle hum,
And ne'er betray that they had stings.
But, most of all, the birds in throngs,
Where'er she went, with chirps and songs
Gave her glad welcome. Her first words
Had been, "I love the pretty birds;"
And ever since her baby hand
Could scatter seed and crumbs of bread,
Each day a waiting feathered band
The darling little maid had fed.

The loving, winsome Cecily--
No dearer child e'er lived than she--
One Christmas-eve (in crimson hood
And cloak she'd in her garden stood
That morn and fed a hungry brood)
In her white bed lay fast asleep,
The moonlight on her golden hair,
Her hands still clasped as in the prayer,
"I pray thee, Lord, my soul to keep."
She slept, and dreamed of Christmas times,
Of Christmas gifts, and Christmas rhymes;
But in no vision did she see
The host that fill