“Harry Pemberton,” said Squire Eliot, who had locked up his cane, and was quite calm, “Harry Pemberton, that’s Lida Scott’s boy, mother.  Lida would bring him up well, I’m sure.  Well, he shall have a lot of roses to-morrow to lay on Colonel Pemberton’s grave.  Isn’t that fair, boys?”

“Yes, yes,” assented they all, with eagerness.

“And as you have by your own admission treated Harry rather badly, suppose you make it up to him by coming here in the morning, carrying the roses to his house, and owning that you regret your behavior.”

It was rather a bitter pill, but the boys swallowed it bravely.

Next day, as Harry and his mother, laden with dog-wood boughs and branches of lilac, set out for the little spot most sacred to them on earth, they met a procession which was headed by Frank Fletcher.  The procession had a drum and a flag, and it had roses galore.

“Honest roses, Harry,” said Frank.  “The Squire is at home and he gave them to us for you.  Let me tell you about it.”

The story was told from beginning to end.  Then Mrs. Pemberton said, “Now, boys, take for your everlasting motto from this time forth, ’Clean hands and a pure heart.’”

Our Cats.

The first cat of our recollection was a large, sleek, black and white animal, the pet and plaything of our very early childhood.  Tom, as we called him, seemed much attached to us all, but when we moved from the house of his kittendom and attempted to keep him with us, we found that we had reckoned without our host; all our efforts were in vain; the cat returned to its former home and we gave it up as lost to us.

The months sped along and we children had almost forgotten our late favorite, when one day he came mewing into the yard, and in so pitiable a condition that all our hearts were moved for him.  He was in an emaciated state distressing to behold, and then one of his hind legs was broken so that the bone protruded through the skin.  The dear old cat was at once fed, but it was soon seen that his injury was incurable, and our truly humane father said the only thing to do with Tom was to put him out of his misery.  This was done, but we have ever kept in mind the cat that would not go from its first home, even with those it loved, and yet remembered those friends and came to them in trouble.  I should have stated above, that the two homes were less than a mile apart.

Morris was another black and white cat, named Morris from our minister, who gave him to brother.  He was a fine fellow, and would jump a bar four feet from the floor.  But brother obtained a pair of tiny squirrels, the striped squirrels, and feared that Morris would catch them, for he was all alert when he spied them, and so the cat was sent to the house of a friend, as this friend wished to possess him.  Morris was let out of the basket in which he was carried into our friend’s kitchen, and giving one frightened look at his surroundings he sprang up the chimney and was never seen by any of his early friends again.  Poor Morris, we never knew his fate!