door-mat, when they went out; but no door-mat was there; nothing was visible but dirty time-stained boards.

we

"What's to be done?" said Jim, turning to his wife; cannot be going to bed and leave these poor children crying here: what shall we do?"

Mary got up off the stairs, and hastily wiping away her tears with a corner of her apron asked at the keyhole, "Where does mother put the key, little ones?"

"Sometimes in her pocket, and sometimes over the door,"

was the answer.

In an instant Jim had raised the light towards the doorsill, and, to his and Mary's great joy, there sure enough was the key; it took but a minute to unlock the door and throw it open; but having done so, instead of entering, they involuntarily started back. They had themselves known what hard times were, and had seen plenty of it amongst their neighbours, but never had their kind hearts received a greater shock than at that moment; for there before them, in the garret all but bare of furniture, clad in a few rags, was sitting, in perfect darkness in the middle of the room, the young girl, her little brother wrapt up in an old shawl, tightly folded in her arms. The child cast a piteous look towards Jim and Mary, but made no attempt to rise from the floor.

"When will mother be back?" asked Mary.

"Don't know," answered the girl; "she's been gone all day, and we are hungry."

"What! have you had nothing to eat all day?" inquired Jim, compassionately.

"Mother left us a bit of bread in the morning, and we ate it all up; and we have had no more of anything," was the reply.

"Well, get up, young ones, and come down with us. My missus shall give you something to eat and drink, and at good warm fire too."

The child rose from her seat on the floor, still holding her little brother in her arms, and came out to the worthy couple at the door; and Jim, relocking it and depositing the key over the doorway, proceeded to light them down stairs. Mary offered to take the little one from his sister, but he clung to her, crying, "Charley not go from Nelly; Charley not go away."

"No more Charley shall," said Mary, soothingly; at the same time longing to fold the neglected child to her own

loving bosom, for the sake of her dear dead Charley. Having gained their own apartment, Jim Edmonds stirred up the fire, and Mary getting the bread and butter, cut two large pieces, which she gave to the hungry children. At the sight of the food Charley's eyes glistened, and slipping out of his sister's arms he sat down before the fire, perfectly contented; whilst Nelly, making a profound curtsey, took possession of Mary's footstool, her large dark eyes travelling rapidly round and round the room. Jim and Mary continued standing, gazing at the children, whose faces and attire told that they and clean water seldom made acquaintance.

"What's your name besides Nelly?" asked Mary, after a short silence. Nelly got up from off her stool, and making another curtsey, replied; "My name's Nelly Carroll; and his," pointing to her brother, "is Charley Carroll; and father's gone to sea, and mother works at the potteries."

Having finished her say, she sat down upon the stool and again attacked her bread and butter.

"Don't you go any where to school?" inquired Mary; at the same time adding, "There, sit still, child; you need not get up to me, I am not a lady; but be sure you always do when you talk with ladies."

66

Yes, ma'am, but I don't go to school; you see I couldn't leave Charley," and Nelly cast a fond look at the child as she spoke; whilst Charley hearing something about going, began again to cry,-" Charley not go from Nelly, Nelly not go away."

"Hush, darling, hush!" said Mary, giving the child another piece of bread and butter, "Nelly shall go with Charley when he goes away;" and turning to her husband, a low whispering conversation took place between them, as to what should be done with the children for the night, their mother not having returned; and Mr. Jenkins who resided in the opposite parlour, and had a sort of charge over the house from the landlord, having locked the street door for the night. It was at last decided that the children had better sleep in the garret in case of their mother's returning home, and accordingly Mary told them, she would go up with them and put them to bed before their mother came back.

Nelly opened her large eyes, exclaiming, "But we have got no bed."

"No bed!” cried Mary, looking aghast.

"No," said Nelly, nodding her head very unconcernedly. "Mrs. Tippet has had the bed for rent for the last lodgings, and Charley sleeps with mother in the cloak, and I sleep in the shawl; but mother's got the cloak on, so Charley must sleep with me in the shawl;" and Nelly rose as she spoke, taking up her little brother in her arms, and preparing to carry him off, with the greatest satisfaction at the arrangement.

"But they will be scrammed!* the children will be scrammed, Mary, before morning" cried Jim, scratching his head with perplexity and distress at the very thought of two young creatures sleeping on the bare boards in a cold garret with only a shawl to cover them. Mary Edmonds went to a box in the closet, and taking out some old, but warm articles of clothing, threw them over her arm, saying to her husband as she left the room, "I'll come for more if they are wanted, Jim," a promise which was quickly fulfilled; for on Mary's entering Mrs. Carroll's garret, she found that, excepting a few old bundles, a box, two or three bits of crockery ware, a stool, and a broken chair, there was not a single article of furniture in it.

"Where do you sleep?" asked the shocked little woman. "In that corner," said the child; and putting down her brother, she began placing the bundles as pillows for their heads, and spreading a threadbare woollen shawl on the floor for them to lie on.

66

Stop!" cried Mary, and she ran down stairs; speedily returning with some pieces of old carpet, which with what she had brought up before, she soon made into a warmer, if not more luxurious resting place for the poor children.

"Now say your prayers," said Mary, "and ask God to take care of you and mother." But Nelly stood perfectly still, staring at her. "Don't you know a prayer?" asked Mary: the child shook her head. "Poor little creatures! why they are as ignorant as the poor heathen, God help them!" murmured Mary to herself: then bending over the children, she caused them to kneel down and speak after her. The children did as she bade them, and with wondering faces gazed up into hers, repeating after her, "Our Father who art in heaven, please to take care of father and mother, and make us good children, for Jesus Christ's sake." Tears trickled down Mary's cheeks, and her voice faltered, as the lisping tongues caught her accents and repeated her words:

* Starved.

but the prayer was not in vain. He who seeth and heareth in secret, heard the humble petition of that lowly woman and those neglected babes, and not only heard, but granted it, as our future pages will show.

THE COMMANDMENT WITH PROMISE.

PART II.

"Good measure, pressed down.".

WHEN Henry Bently had passed from youth to early manhood, and had entered into business on his own account, the home of his heart was still where a mother's blessing saluted his ear in the morning, and comforted his pillow at night. When new affections and new interests had entwined themselves with his prospects for the future, the approbation of his parents was sought before he could decide on indulging them. The true-hearted woman who believes that a dutiful and affectionate son is likely to make the best husband, will endeavour to cement rather than sever the happy union into which she is admitted as another element of blessing. She ought not to grudge her husband's parents the respectful attention which is still. their due; and when she unites in rendering it (so that without losing a son, they gain a daughter too), there is no fear of that prophetic picture of woe which represents "the mother-in-law against her daughter-in-law, and the daughter-in-law against her mother-in-law." Many a jealous bickering, many a mutual bitterness would be avoided in this relationship, if the daughter-in-law would remember that, in sharing her husband's name and heart and home, she shares his duties and his responsibilities too.

True that it is written, "A man shall leave his father and his mother, and shall cleave unto his wife." In the sense of constituting himself the head of another household and family, this is right, and inevitable; but woe to the selfish and unsanctified union which is made an excuse for neglecting the tender bonds of a relationship which, being in the order of God's creation, cannot be superseded in duty and affection by one of human choice.

Thus judged Anna Bently when folded in the first embrace of her to whom she became daughter-in-law. There

was a gap indeed in the household when Henry removed from it. Parents, sisters, servants, all regretted it; but it was with the unselfish comfort, too, that his happiness was increased, and his influence extended.

For a few short years the elder Mr. Bently, still in health and vigour, continued his business with its usual success; but an unhappy speculation in which he had risked too much, signally failed, and he was not prepared for the unexpected reverse. He concealed the knowledge within his own breast, where it withered his energies and undermined his health. All efforts to retrieve were unavailing, and, with a broken spirit, he at last confided his sorrow to his son. It was a grievous legacy; but Henry did not shrink from accepting it.

"You have now your own to think of, Harry, and must not injure them. If there should be anything left for your dear mother and sisters, you will manage it for them; but I feel that I shall not be here long to bear for them or with them, the mischief I have done."

"They are all mine too, dear father; and so far as they are concerned, let your heart dismiss its care.'

"I believe you will never sink under the burden, Harry. The God whose will you have honoured, and who made you all you have been to us, will bear you up. And as the things that are seen vanish from my grasp, and the unseen world with its blood-bought home draws near, I learn how vain are the things I have too much coveted for my loved ones, and that if a blessing on your efforts may but keep them from want, I am still too highly favoured my end.

in

To the distress caused by his father's death, Henry would not add the knowledge of the state of his affairs, for the aggravation of his dear mother's sorrow. He set himself to arrange them as he best could. Not only was there no provision for his family, but some debts yet remained to be paid; and how to do it, became a serious subject of thought.

66

Anna, dearest," said he, when questioned about the long abstractions to which he had suddenly become subject, we must not indulge for some time in those changes we have talked of."

"I am quite ready to give them up," replied Anna, cheerfully. "You know I never covet what we ought not