left Temperance, and where she had long lived with him. whose death I had witnessed. She was busily engaged in packing up the few utensils she possessed, to have them. taken to her mother's hut. Her manner was as calm as ever, though her face was swollen and distorted. She bade me welcome kindly; wiped a seat by the fire, and asked me if I would eat. She spoke of the funeral, which was to take place toward evening; of the kindness that had been shown her by those near by; and then insensibly turned to the character of him that was gone. "They tell'd me," said she, "not to cry for him, because he was a bad man; and he was powerful bad, to be sure. But God gave him to me to be my father, Sir, and God made me love him like life. He was hard to some, Sir, but here was as good as a child; he raised me kindly, and never was the first blow struck, or oath uttered, within that door. They tell'd me I should n't love him, and could n't think no how I did; but the cub of the wolf never asks whether its mother be good, Sir, and why should I? He was my father, bad as he was, and God, Sir, made me love him; and now, only but for her sake, I could wish I was dead with him." I did not attempt to comfort her, or stop the truly instinetive grief to which she gave way; but I spoke of the world. beyond death, and of the hopes that all had of forgiveness. She sat, her arm upon the window-sill, looking up, as if for hope, into the broken snow-clouds that were drifting cheerlessly from the northwest; her eye was moist, but bright, and her lip trembled with a feeling short of despair. "And is there," said she, without turning, "a right good chance for them that sin?" "The mercy of our Father," I replied, "is boundless." "But if I was there," she continued, still looking up into the sky, "I reckon I could help him, might n't I?” "Every tear you shed, every prayer you breathe, helps him," I answered," and gives you hope." She drew her coarse sleeve across her face, and came and knelt at my feet and prayed. Toward night the little company that cared to follow, in the cold wind, a murderer to his grave, met at the log inn. Temperance, clad in such weeds as she chanced to have, walked as sole mourner. She was supported by him whose hand had taken the life of the dead before us. We walked in silence to the grave, and in silence the rude coffin was placed in the cold earth; the Judge read a simple service, and the frozen clod fell upon the board. The daughter stood calm and motionless at the head of the grave, until all was done; she then came forward, and taking the Judge's hand, "Till this moment," she said, “I never thought to thank God that he had been saved from the fate of the murderer." She then turned to the rest of us, and tried to speak, but her breath choked. Half a dozen voices at once offered her all they could give. I caught with difficulty her reply; she asked only their forgiveness and prayers for him. We left her alone with her Maker. Some hours after dark, the Judge and myself had occasion to pass the graveyard. The wind was high, and the snow drifting; the clouds at times hid all, and at times the moon looked out through the frosty air. We stopped a moment to look at the grave round which we had stood. "The snow will not lodge on it," said my comrade; and he pointed to the dark spot on the field of white. I looked, and thought I saw the object move. We got over the fence and went toward it; it was some sort of garment. I took hold to move it, and found it held down. I thought at first it was the snow, which covered a great part of it; but the Judge guessed more rightly, and, stooping down, he grasped and raised the stiff and lifeless body of Temperance Strong. THE KINDNESS THAT KILLS. COME with me. Look at that cottage. Mark the rosy children; the observant pigs, watchful for stray morsels of bread and apple-peelings; the dirty, noisy, gabbling, companionable, gossiping ducks; the sleepy dog, with his eyes wide awake; the all-sweeping, all-scolding, all-spanking mother. Is it not a beautiful scene, worthy of the Miami valley? See that young good-for-nothing, who has clambered over the garden fence, and is busy looking in the grass for apples; how plump and solid! a New-Zealander would keep him for an Australasian Fourth of July. The rogue deserves to be whipped; he 's stealing the russets. from the tree. But what does he do with them? They are all quietly made over, under cover of the tall iron weeds, to the thin, pale girl, five years older than himself, whose flesh has been shaken off by the ague-demons which haunt these same luxuriant valleys. But, while we are musing over the great problem of rich lands and bilious dwellers, the pale, diffident girl, knowing how little beauty she has, for her wavy looking-glass tells her the worst as to that, and not knowing what a well of inner, of soul beauty, of soul-taking beauty, springs up in her dark eyes when the magic of kind acts opens them,-the awkward, bashful girl, we beg you to notice, has stumbled backwards. Against what? As I live, - it's a bee-hive! She'll be stung to death! What can be done? We are so far off; and the children run; the sleepy dog wakes and runs; the pigs run faster than any; the all-sweeping mother has gone in doors; and round her bowed, devoted head, as though all the wealth of Hymettus or a sugar-hogshead centred there, the roused legions of the insect Victoria sound their gathering-cry. She, poor scared creature, bows submissive, never lifts a hand in selfdefence; both hands, indeed, are busy holding up her apron full of apples. "Better be stung," (so says inarticulate affection,)" than throw away Ned's gift ";-which, by the way, Ned will certainly be spanked for giving. Meanwhile young scapegrace himself runs. "Shame on him!" do you say? Ask first why he ran. Napoleon might have run at the right time. He runs for help. Good. "But still," you say, "he should have helped his sweetheart himself." Very true. Notice now what he does. At ten steps off stand empty flour-barrels, waiting the advent of those very apples Ned has been stealing. Quick as a hawk on a chicken, Ned pounces on one; staggering, he shoulders it, grasping simultaneously a handful of the straw which lies ready to embrace the coy russets. Ellen, paler than ever, calm as only a sick child can be, bowed head, holding her apron full of apples. Only an instant has elapsed since the hive was upset, long as it takes to write and read about it; the bees still dance their wardance with uplifted tomahawks, when, like a new Achilles, Ned, barrel on shoulder, wisp in hand, rushes in, scatters the myriads for a moment with his straw sword, and plumps the barrel over the astounded Ellen, who comes to her knees, losing all her russets. Stay still," says Ned, "one minute"; and before the defrauded honey-hoarders know what's what, or who's who, he 's into the house, and out again, with a bunch of matches, and Ellen, half-choked with gratitude and brimstone, is trying to cough out her thanks in the back-kitchen. 66 stands with II. Look again! A little boy, about Ned's age, sits knocking his heels upon the counter of a country store. His father and grandfather, good, sensible, steady, rising people, measure out calico and cloth to the clodhoppers who swarm in, this fine fall afternoon. Women, with children and without, come and go; jean-coats enter and exeunt; the flies buzz with the prosy tone of autumnal old age; and Bob kicks his heels. "My boy," says the grandfather, who has nerves, "please stop your noise." "I won't," says Bob. "Robert, my son!" emphasizes the immediate parent. Bob kicks on. The young democracy conquers. "Bob," pleads the nerve-torturing grandsire, "here 's a fip; save it; save all your fips, and you'll be rich." Bob understands the bribe indirect as well as the bribe direct, and gives his ancestor a wink that implies, "Old fellow, make the young one pay up too, and I'll quit," and kicks on. "Robert," says the defaulter after a moment, "if I give you a fip will you go home to mamma ? " "Just you try," answers Bob, with watering mouth. The experiment is tried, and succeeds; but, as the youth hears frequently the moral lesson that "we must gather as we go," he reaches home with such an accumulation of candy on his face and feelers, that it is well Mrs. Pond's unhoused bees are not by at the time, or they would surely suck him up by mistake. III. Turn the kaleidoscope. Moonlight falls through the trees; silent, silvery mists, full of beauty and poison, steal inch by inch from the river. Are these twain, walking here now that the drops gather on the leaves, strangers to Ohio? No, they are Buckeyes. Then they are either crazy, or charmed, or full of the magic might of calomel. Neither they are merely lovers, and think and care not for |