To leave upon Chrysantas’ lips,
  The jewels paled in dull eclipse
  To Artabasus:  hard and cold
  And empty grew the cup of gold. 
  “Better, O Sire, than mine,” cried he,
  “I deem Chrysantas’ gift to be.” 
  Yet the wise king his courtiers knew,
  And unto each had given his due.

  To all who watch and all who wait
  The king will come, or soon or late. 
  Choose well:  thy secret wish is known,
  And thou shalt surely have thine own—­
  A golden cup thy poor wealth’s sign,
  Or on thy lips Love’s seal divine.

    EMILY A. BRADDOCK.

BAUBIE WISHART.

“I have taken you at your word, you see, Miss Mackenzie.  You told me not to give alms in the street, and to bring the begging children to you.  So here is one now.”

Thus introduced, the begging child was pushed forward into the room by the speaker, a lady who was holding her by one shoulder.

She was a stunted, slim creature, that might have been any age from nine to fourteen, barefooted and bareheaded, and wearing a Rob Roy tartan frock.  She entered in a sidelong way that was at once timid and confidently independent, and stared all round her with a pair of large brown eyes.  She did not seem to be in the least frightened, and when released by her guardian stood at ease comfortably on one foot, tucking the other away out of sight among the not too voluminous folds of her frock.

It was close on twelve o’clock of a March day in the poor sewing-women’s workroom in Drummond street.  The average number of women of the usual sort were collected together—­a depressed and silent gathering.  It seemed as if the bitter east wind had dulled and chilled them into a grayer monotony of look than usual, so that they might be in harmony with the general aspect which things without had assumed at its grim bidding.  A score or so of wan faces looked up for a minute, but the child, after all, had nothing in her appearance that was calculated to repay attention, and the lady was known to them all.  So “white seam” reasserted its old authority without much delay.

Miss Mackenzie laid down the scissors which she had been using on a bit of coarse cotton, and advanced in reply to the address of the newcomer.  “How do you do? and where did you pick up this creature?” she asked, looking curiously at the importation.

“Near George IV.  Bridge, on this side of it, and I just took hold of her and brought her off to you at once.  I don’t believe”—­this was said sotto voce—­“that she has a particle of clothing on her but that frock.”

“Very likely.—­What is your name, my child?”

“Baubie Wishart, mem.”  She spoke in an apologetic tone, glancing down at her feet, the one off duty being lowered for the purpose of inspection, which over, she hoisted the foot again immediately into the recesses of the Rob Roy tartan.

“Have you a father and mother?”