tle cripple sobbing beside the grave, and the driver of the hearse, a good-hearted Irishman, said to him, "In wid ye, or get up here by me, an' ye're a mind to. I'll take ye back."

But Joe shook his head, and prepared to hop back as he had hopped out. "Thanky, sir," said he, "but I'd ruther walk. I feels like I would be gittin' a ride out o' Kiah's funeral.”

The wind blew open his buttonless shirt, and the rain beat heavily on his loyal little breast, but he struggled against the storm, and paused only once on his way home. That was beside the goods-box that he and Kiah had had for a stall. Now it was drenched with rain and the sides bespattered with mud, and the newspaper that had served for a cloth had blown over one corner and was soaked and torn, but clung to its old companion, though the wind tried to tear it away and the rain to beat it down. Little Joe stood a minute beside it, and cried harder than

ever.

For several days Little Joe drooped and shivered and refused to eat, and at length he grew ill and sent for Mr. Wise; but Mr. Wise was out of town, and did not return for a week; and though, when he got home, the first thing he did was to visit Little Joe, he came too late, for Joe would never again rise from the straw pallet on which he lay, nor use the crutches that now stood idle in the corner.

His eyes brightened and he smiled faintly as Tom entered like a breath of fresh air,-so strong

and fresh and vigorous that it made one feel better only to be near him.

"Why, Joe! how is this?"

The little cripple paused to gather up his strength; then he said, "Busted ag'in, Mas' Tom, and you can't nuvvur sot me up no mo'." "Oh, stuff! Dr. North can if I can't. Why didn't you send for him when you found I was away ?"

"I dunno, sir: I nuvvur thought 'bout it." Turning to the woman with whom Joe lived, "And why didn't you do it?" said Tom angrily. "I didn't know Joe was so sick," said she. ""Tain't no use sen'in' for no doctor now. I jes❜ been tellin' Joe he better not put off makin' peace wid de Lord."

"I don't reckon de Lord is mad wid me, Nancy. What is I done to Him? I didn't use to cuss, an' I didn't play marbles on Sunday, 'cos I couldn't play 'em no time, like de boys dat had feet."

"Ef you don't take keer you'll be too late, like Kiah. I ain't a-sayin' whar Kiah is now,— 'tain't for me to jedge," said Nancy,-" but you better be a-tryin' to open de gate o' Paradise."

Piping the words out slowly and painfully, Little Joe replied, "I don't b'leeve I keer 'bout goin' 'less Kiah can git in too; but I spec' he's dar, 'cos I don't see what de good Lord could ha' had ag'in' him. He oughtn't to thought hard o' nothin Kiah done, 'cos he warn't nuvvur nothin' but a free nigger, an' didn't hav no ole mas' to

pattern by. Maybe He'll let us bofe in. I know Kiah's waitin' for me somewhar, but I dunno what to say to Him. You ax Him, Mas' Tom."

He spoke more feebly, and his eyes were getting dull, but the old instinct of servitude remained, and he added, "Ain't you got nothin' to spread on de flo', Nancy, so Mas' Tom won't git his knees dirty?"

Immediately and reverently Tom knelt on the clay floor, and, as nearly as he remembered it, repeated the Lord's Prayer.

66

Thanky, Mas' Tom," said Little Joe feebly. "What was dat―ole mis'-used to-sing? 'Oh, Lamb o'-God-I come-I-" The words ceased, and the eyes remained half closed, the pupils fixed.

Little Joe was dead.

Jennie Woodville, in "Lippincott's Magazine."

THE MERCHANT AND THE BOOK-AGENT.

A BOOK-AGENT importuned James Watson, a rich merchant living a few miles out of the city, until he bought a book,-the "Early Christian Martyrs." Mr. Watson didn't want the book, but he bought it to get rid of the agent; then, taking it under his arm, he started for the train which takes him to his office in the city.

Mr. Watson hadn't been gone long before Mrs. Watson came home from a neighbor's. The book-agent saw her, and went in and persuaded the wife to buy a copy of the book. She was

ignorant of the fact that her husband had bought the same book in the morning. When Mr. Watson came back in the evening, he met his wife with a cheery smile as he said, “Well, my dear, how have you enjoyed yourself to-day? Well, I hope?"

"Oh, yes! had an early caller this morning." "Ah, and who was she?"

"It wasn't a 'she' at all; it was a gentleman, a book-agent."

"A what?"

"A book-agent; and to get rid of his importuning I bought his book,-the Early Christian Martyrs.' See, here it is," she exclaimed, advancing towards her husband.

"I don't want to see it," said Watson, frowning terribly.

Why, husband?" asked his wife.

"Because that rascally book-agent sold me the same book this morning. Now we've got two copies of the same book,-two copies of the Early Christian Martyrs,' and-"

"But, husband, we can-"

“No, we can't, either!" interrupted Mr. Watson. "The man is off on the train before this. Confound it! I could kill the fellow. I—”

"Why, there he goes to the depot now," said Mrs. Watson, pointing out of the window at the retreating form of the book-agent making for the train.

"But it's too late to catch him, and I'm not dressed. I've taken off my boots, and—”

Just then Mr. Stevens, a neighbor of Mr. Watson, drove by, when Mr. Watson pounded on the window-pane in a frantic manner, almost frightening the horse.

"Here, Stevens !" he shouted, "you're hitched up! Won't you run your horse down to the train and hold that book-agent till I come? Run! Catch 'im now!"

"All right,” said Mr. Stevens, whipping up his horse and tearing down the road.

Mr. Stevens reached the train just as the conductor shouted, "All aboard!"

"Book-agent!" he yelled, as the book-agent stepped on the train. "Book-agent! hold on! Mr. Watson wants to see you."

"Watson? Watson wants to see me?" repeated the seemingly puzzled book-agent. "Oh, I know what he wants: he wants to buy one of my books; but I can't miss the train to sell it to him."

"If that is all he wants, I can pay for it and take it back to him. How much is it?"

"Two dollars, for the Early Christian Martyrs'" said the book-agent, as he reached for the money and passed the book out the car-window.

Just then Mr. Watson arrived, puffing and blowing, in his shirt-sleeves. As he saw the train pull out he was too full for utterance.

"Well, I got it for you," said Stevens,-"just got it, and that's all."

"Got what?" yelled Watson.