Year: 1871

father. 1t would have been pleas.
e ant, after all, to have rosy elf, all
< smiles and dimples, climbing up in
: to his lap after supper, and burying


a pair of pink cheeks in his waist
: coat. But that, alas! although it
: might have been, was not to be


thought of now.
+, The summer waned and autumn
7 came in her rustling robes of brown


and gold, strewing the grassy space
| behind the office with a loose car
r pet of crisp and withered leaves. The


intimacy between Simon and the
child, extending now even to taking
her in his arms and kissing her, had
: clandestinely smuggled an element


of kindliness into the lawyers ma
, ture, which kindled in his heart a
warmth which it had not known for
J years. On every sunny afternoon
he walked across the common to
tmeet the workman and his niece,
, and sometimes stopped himself to
gather 4 handful of the rustling


leaves with which to playfully cover
| the child's flaXen curls.


| One afternoon, he saw the man
approaching with singular, halt
J ing gait, as though it were painful


for him to walk. The, hour was a
|; little earlier than that of his usual
return from work; but the child was
waiting for him under the trees.


AS she saw him coming, she clapped


her hands with her characteristic


little shout, and ran toward him.


But he did not catch her in his arms
as usual, and as he took her hand,
put his own great brown one up
quickly to his heart, and staggered
a little unsteadily. Then, without
a word, he fell forward suddenly up
on the grass.


MY goodnessr said Simon, leap


ing at once out of the low, open
window and running across the
common toward them. Something
has happened to the man.


| When he reached the spot the
workman lay upon his face, and the
child was clinging to him with
screams of terror. Several persons
who had seen him fall, came quick
ly up and tried to raise him to his
feet; but when they recognized the
truth, they laid him back again,
and tried to unclasp the arms of the
little girl. ~-


1T was heart disease said one,
softly.


is he dead?' asked Simon, bend
ing over the PROSTATE frame in awe.


Quite dead,' replied the other,
who was a neighboring physician,
is the child hisP


The child is mine, now,' said Mr..
Smallpiece, firmly, raising her in
his arms. will you go with me,
little oneN
SIS the world coming to an endF
asked one of the bystanders grimly.


"A part of what 1 have been to the !
world has come to an end,' replied
Simon, pressing his lips to the tear
stained cheek of the little one in his |
arms. Take the poor fellow to his
house. The child shall go with me.


And he took her home, and lock-
ing the Office, sat down in his big
chair and tried to comfort her. As
he held her in his arms all tie feel |
ings of paternity, so long dead with
I in his breast, came suddenly upper
most and greatly to his own aston
ishment he found himself doing
without the least embarrassment,
the needful things which seemed
best to draw her mind away from
what had happened.


When he had squieted her sobs
with CHEEKY stories he summoned
his housekeeper, and bade her at
tend to all the child's wants. The
woman was, fortunately, kind
hearted, and she'did SO. |


Meanwhile, Mr.. Smallpiece sat
down to ponder what he should do
with her. 1t was evident he could
not keep her with him as her uncle
had done. Why not? Because
well, because he was a stranger to
her mother, and she would never
consent to it. And that led him to
think that if her mother was only
here, he could perhaps provide
home for her and her children too.
And then, perhaps the world would
remember, after he was gone, that
he had done at least one kindly act
during his lifetime, and recollecting1
that, would; d;forgive him many of his
more selfish ones. Yes, he would
keep the child, and he would help
the mother too. -.- /


But how was he to get word to her?
The workman had told him of the
town where she resided, but had
never spoken of her by name. He
might have asked the child; but al
though Simon Smallpiece was an ex-
perienced lawyer, who usually
thought of everything, singularly
enough he never thought of this. So
he went to the child's bedroom to
inquire. At that moment tiny
voice came up from out the bed
clothes, reminding him that some
thing had been forgotten by his
housekeeper.


sAnd what is thatP asked Simon.


Dear little heart, she had not said
her prayers. ,.-.


'Didy your uncle always want you to
say your prayers?' asked the lawyer,
going to the bedside. /


Yes, always


Then say them for me, little one,'
said Simon, and kneeling down by
her side the old man rested his scat
tered gray hairs upon the counter
pane, while that tiny voice repeated
a simple prayer, and the chubby
hands were fast clasped together.
And in that prayer following, every
word of which touched Simon
Smallpiece's heart as it had never
been before; and from his lips there
went with the supplication of the
child, an earnest prayer to be made
better, and more worthy of the
charge which had been placed with
in his keeping. .... 70.


He returned to his office, and wri
ting the letter, directed it to the
postmaster of the town in which the
object of his search resided, inform
ing him of the fatal event of the af-