But when the boy ran eagerly to find old Hans, to show him the jewel and tell him of the princely promises, Hans was nowhere to be found; not in the hermit’s house, where he was to have met them and shared their little festive meal, nor at his own stall, nor in the hut in which he slept.

Gottlieb’s heart began to sink.

Never had his dear old friend failed to share in any joy of theirs before.

At length, as he was lingering about the old man’s little hut, wondering, a sad, silent company came bearing slowly and tenderly a heavy burden, which at last they laid on Hans’ poor straw pallet.

It was poor Hans himself, bruised and crushed and wounded in his struggles to press through the crowd to see his darling, his poor crooked limbs broken and unable to move any more.

But the face was untouched, and when they had laid him on the couch, and the languid eyes opened and rested on the beloved face of the child bending over him bathed in tears, a light came over the poor rugged features, and shone in the dark, hollow eyes, such as nothing on earth can give—­a wonderful light of great, unutterable love, as they gazed into the eyes of the child, and then, looking upward, seemed to open on a vision none else could see.

“Jesus!  Savior!  I can do no more.  Take care of him, thou thyself, Jesus, Lord!”

He said no more—­no prayer for himself, only for the child.

Then the eyes grew dim, the head sank back, and with one sigh he breathed his soul away to God.

And such an awe came over the boy that he ceased to weep.

He could only follow the happy soul up to God, and say voicelessly in his heart: 

“Dear Lord Jesus!  I understand at last!  The raven was the angel.  And Thou hast let me see him for one moment as he is, as he is now with Thee, as he will be evermore!”

[Illustration]

A TRIP TO THE TEA COUNTRY.

By William M. TILESTON.

[Illustration:  ]

I was leaning over the tea-room table on one of the lovely spring mornings that we sometimes have in China.  In front of me the large window, like that in an artist’s studio, admitted the north light upon the long array of little porcelain teacups and saucers, and “musters,” or square, flat boxes of tea-samples.  The last new “chop” had been carefully tasted and the leaf inspected, and I was wondering whether the price asked by the tea-man would show a profit over the latest quotations from London and New York, when my speculations were disturbed by the entrance of my friend Charley, followed by Akong, well known as the most influential tea-broker in the Oopack province.  Charley and Akong were fast friends, and I saw by the twinkle in the eyes of each that a premeditated plot of some kind was about being exploded upon my unsuspecting self.

But before going further, let me tell you who we all are, where we are, and what we are doing.