The Phoenix herald., 1879-05-31

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 But yet, to sit down thus and meanly
 mourn, like Job, will never lift me uI
 again. There must still be time and
 opportunities to redeem myself. l am
 still young and strong, and may yet
 prove wiser, if faithfully follow the counsel of him who understood me sc well in my boyhood. Henceforth ] will do so. I will strive hard again,
 and the lesson of the little box shall be
 my guide as I toil."
 Animated by the resolution he had
 formed, half the load which had op-
 pressed him vanished. Among strangers
 he entered anew into the mazes of
 business, and though his melancholy
 memories sometimes made his strug-
 gIes less energetic than he wished,
 their discouraging effect was more than
 offset by the great object he had in
 view-the ultimate power to clear his
 reputation at home from all stain.
 Stray gleams of success multiplied
 and gathered, as he proceeded slowly
 but steadily toward the horizon of his
 hopes, and at last ripened into the in-
 spring dawn. Often, while the night
 of his distress was vanishing behind him, the old prodigal impulse which had caused 1t would return upon him {; but he checked it by the memory of the little box; and while not mindless of the claims of those who were more needy than he, he learned to feel that there was yet something nobler than extravagant benevolence; to be just first and then generous, and that, beside what was due to his creditors, there was much due to himself.
 By this line of conduct he rose again to substantial prosperity. Experience had not been wasted upon him, and his memory of the little box was talis manic guide to him. One-half of all his profits he uniformly put by for fu- ture days; and freed from all former indebtedness, he found himself, in the prime of life, not merely commended for being generous as well as honest, but secure against the wiles and walls of impostors, and wealthy without hay ing been a miser.
 Thus enabled, by a courageous ad herence to the provident rule which was at first repugnant to his nature in ioy and honor to the town which he had left in disgrace, he revisited the scenes of his youth, and as he wandered among them and revived their assecia- tions, he thanked God that he was now as happy as he had ever been when he played there. The old cottage was torn down, but the grass grew green over the graves of his parents, and he felt that their souls were in a change less home. The natural landmarks re- mained unaltered, and as he strolled along the chief road of the village, he paused awhile at the spot where, re- turning from the swamp with the kite, he first met the good man man, Louis Dwight.
 ''He must be quite old now if alive" unused he. Let me see; was then ten, and he, perhaps, forty-my own age now. Three score and ten the allotted age of man. He may be lead; or if not, suppose shall never see or hear of him again. How like a dream 1t all seems Here l am stand ing alive Here is where he gave me the pence, opposite that very tree; and lere is-why, bless me, who comes lere? If this isn't the old gentleman my eyes or my memory fail me-"
 It was a bowed old man, in worn and faded garments, who was approaching, walking slowly, with a cane. Archley raised his hat respectfully as he drew near. He had truly recognized him. It was Louis Dwight.
 But his old friend and adviser did not recognize him so quickly, though he paused and returned his saluta- ton.
 $ His sight may be poor," thought Archley; '' but will test his memory by surer method. Old gentleman, was born in this village, and have been absent many years. l have been stand ing here for some time, looking upon the scenes which are more interesting now than they were when Iplayed here, thirty years ago."
 "Thirty years ago l'' exclaimed old Mir. Dwight, staring at him. Why, [ used to live here then"
 "Did you, indeed Then perhaps you might be able to tell me what be- "a me of a very fine gentleman who ived here at the same time, but went | away before I did. He was out riding one day, and saved kite for his son; md on this very spot he gave me some | pence for it, and some very good ad- rice into the bargain His name was Louis Dwight
 [" And yours is-9"
 "Herbert Archley."
 "Why," cried the astonished old | gentleman, holding up his hands to heaven; ''merciful Providence is his you, my dear young friend? Let ne give youa good hugl' And faltering oward him, he gave him an embrace which was returned with interest, and | hen, in brief, they exchanged histo- ies-that of Mir. Dwight being far nore melancholy than Archley's.
 His son was dead, his property all ,one, and he was now a dependent Ipon charity, where once he had lived D afiuence.
 Archley heard in silence, with tears; ut he frightened them with smile as le said:
 Mir. Dwight, I believe that God Ias ordered that we should meet this ay, and we meet. sir, never to part Intil one of us is dead. You are now 'oor, but am rich. All that I possess
 owe to your early lessons to me. I 7il protect and comfort you while life asts. and repair your losses as well as