omething which should
make it, if only in the person of its meanest, humblest citizen, a
little happier or better.

At last, when he knew that his eye was true and his touch sure, he took
up the picture he had promised to paint for the dear sister, and
worked at it until he was finished.

"This is better than all he has done before," the beholders said. "It
is surely beautiful, for it makes one happy to look at it."

"And yet my heart ached as I did it," the boy said, as he went back to
the field. "I thought of her all the time I worked,--it was sorrow that
gave me power." It seemed as if a soft voice, that spoke only to his
heart, answered back--

"Not sorrow but love, and perfect love has all things in its gift, and
of it are all things born save happiness, and though that may be born
too----"

"How does one find happiness?" interrupted the boy.

"It is a strange chase," the answer seemed to be; "to find it for one's
own self, one must seek it for others. We all throw the ball for each
other."

"But it is so difficult to seize."

"Perfect love helps one to live without happiness," his own heart
answered to himself; "and above all things it helps one to work and to
wait."

"But if it gives one happiness too?" he asked eagerly.

"Ah, then it is called Heaven."

WRITING A BOOK.

"Let us write a book," they said; "but what shall it be about?"

"A fairy story," said the elder sister.

"A book about kings and queens," said the other.

"Oh, no," said the brother, "let's write about animals."

"We will write about them all," they cried together. So they put the
paper, and pens, and ink ready. The elder sister took up a fairy story
and looked at it, and put it down again.

"I have never known any fairies," she said, "except in books; but, of
course, it would not do to put one book inside another--anyone could do
that."

"I shall not begin to-day," the little one said, "for I must know a few
kings and queens before I write about them, or I may say something
foolish."

"I shall write about the pig, and the pony, and the white rabbit," said
the brother; "but first I must think a bit. It would never do to write
a book without thinking."

Then the elder sister took up the fairy story again, to see how many
things were left out, for those, she thought, would do to go into her
book. The little one said to herself, "Really, it is no good thinking
about kings and queens until I have known some, so I