Let it sing of the carriage that surprised the man from his fiddle and the woman from her tears by its thunder in the quiet street.

Let it sing of the warm-hearted brother, forgetting the bitterness of the past, his pockets replenished from a well-saved hoard, who rushed in, startling the little sleepers with his joyous greeting.  Let it chant the praises of the hampers of wine, and fowls, and dainties, and the bundles of toys, that same lumbering carriage contained.  And last, but not least, let it thrill with the glad shout of a little newsboy, who, frantic with delight, hurried on a new gray suit and a pair of bran-new boots, a present received that very day from his then unknown uncle, John Redfield.

STORY OF A BEAST.

It was a dirty, grasping little office, vile enough to have been built by the Evil One; and the occupant was a dirty, grasping little man, cruel enough to have been made out of its scraps.  It was a hard, remorseless little door, that took in a visitor at a gulp and closed after him with a bite.  If the luckless caller happened to be a debtor, the fantastic barbarity of his reception was positively infernal.  The jerk of grotesque ferocity that greeted him was like the “hoop la!” of a demonized gymnast.  The straight-backed chair looked like a part of the stiff, angular man.  The yellow-wash on the wall seemed to have caught its reflex from the faded face, and stared grimly at deep lines of avarice ironed into it.  Even the mud on the floor, the dust on the table, and the cobwebs on the ceiling maliciously conspired against him, and asserted themselves in every seam of his threadbare clothes.  But the face,—­stern, stony, relentless, an uncertain compromise between the ghastly severity of a German etching and the constipated austerity of old pictures of the saints,—­in that, one fixed idea had blotted out every other vestige of humanity.  Each starting vein, bone, and muscle on the hungry visage had “stand and deliver” scarred all over it.  The eager metallic glitter of his eyes, the rigid harshness of his mouth, and the nameless craving that seemed to speak from his lean, attenuated cheeks, united to make the name of Hardy Gripstone and Beast synonymous.  He looked like a beast, he ate like a beast, he lived like a beast.

Beast started out of every bristle on his unkempt head; it shone in the unhealthy gloss of his battered hat; it wallowed on the stock that clung around his dirty neck; it glistened in the grease on his dingy clothes; it starved on his thin, claw-like hands; it flourished in the grime imbedded under his nails; it creaked in his worn-out, down-trodden shoes.  Men, as he shambled by on the streets, unconsciously muttered, “Beast!” women, shrinking from him, whispered, “Beast!” between the heart-throbs the terror of his presence created; children, hushing their cries in silent horror at his grimace, stared “Beast!” out of their wonder-stricken