“Do read up, Stephen,” she exclaimed.

With a voice broken by the effort he had to make all the time to keep from crying, Stephen read,

“MADAM—­Put away your mangle-that son of yours is worth mangling for; but it is time to rest now.  The note is for your present wants; in future your son may supply you.  I let him go to-night; but I did not mean him to stay away, if he chooses to come back.  I don’t see that I can do well without him.  But I don’t want him back if he would rather go anywhere else; I know plenty that would be glad to have him.  He has been seen in the shop, and noticed, and such lads are not always to be got.  If he chooses to come back to me, he won’t repent.  I’ve no sons of my own, thank God.  He knows what I am; I am better than I was, and I may be better still.  I’ve a queer way of doing things, but it is my way, and can’t be helped.  Tell him I’ll be glad to have him back to-morrow, if he likes.  Yours,

“J.  W.”

“I knew it!” exclaimed Mary, triumphantly; “I always said so!  I knew you would get on!”

Stephen did go back to his eccentric master, and he never had any reason to repent.  He got on even beyond his mother’s most soaring hopes.  The shop eventually became his own, and he lived a flourishing and respected tradesman.  We need scarcely add that his mother had no further use for her mangle, and that she was a very proud and a very happy woman.

DO THEY MISS ME?

  Do they miss me at home?  Do they miss me? 
    ’Twould be an assurance most dear,
  To know at this moment some loved one
    Was saying, “I wish he was here!”
  To feel that the group at the fireside
    Were thinking of me as I roam! 
  Oh, yes! ’twould be joy beyond measure,
    To know that they missed me at home.

  When twilight approaches—­the season
    That ever was sacred to song—­
  Does some one repeat my name over,
    And sigh that I tarry so long? 
  And is there a chord in the music,
    That’s missed when my voice is away? 
  And a chord in each glad heart that waketh
    Regret at my wearisome stay?

  Do they place me a chair at the table,
    When evening’s home pleasures are nigh! 
  And lamps are lit up in the parlour,
    And stars in the calm azure sky? 
  And when the “Good Nights” are repeated,
    And each lays them calmly to sleep,
  Do they think of the absent, and waft me
    A whispered “Good-Night” o’er the deep?

  Do they miss me at home? do they miss me? 
    At morning, at noon, or at night,
  And lingers one gloomy shade round them,
    That only my presence can light? 
  Are joys less invitingly welcomed,
    Are pleasures less hailed than before,
  Because one is missed from the circle? 
    Because I am with them no more?