“In Heaven’s name, Mary! what is the matter?”

His wife made no answer.  She was lying with her face pressed close to that of little Harry, and both were pale as ashes.  The father placed his hand upon the cheek of his boy, and found it marble cold.  Clasping his hands tightly against his forehead, he staggered backward and fell; but he did not strike the floor, but seemed falling, falling, falling from a fearful height.  Suddenly he was conscious that he had been standing on a lofty tower—­had missed his footing, and was now about being dashed to pieces to the earth.  Before reaching the ground, horror overcame him, and he lost, for a moment, his sense of peril.

“Thank God!” was uttered, most fervently, in the next instant.

“For what, dear?” asked Mrs. Bancroft, rising up partly from her pillow, and looking at her husband with a half-serious, half-laughing face.

“That little Harry is not dead.”  And Mr. Bancroft bent over and fixed his eyes with loving earnestness upon the rosy-cheeked, sleeping child.

Just then there came from the adjoining room a wild burst of girlish laughter.

“What’s that?” A strange surprise flashed over the face of Mr. Bancroft.

“Kate and Mary are in a gay humor this morning,” said the mother.  “But what have you been dreaming about, dear?”

As this question was asked, a strain of music was heard floating up from the parlor, and the voice of Flora came sweetly warbling a familiar air.

The father buried his face in the pillow, and wept for joy.  He had awakened from a long, long dream of horror.

From that time Mr. Bancroft became a wiser man.  He was no longer a murmurer, but a thankful recipient of the good gifts sent him by Providence.  His wife bore him, in all, ten children, five of whom have already attained their majority.  He never wanted a loaf of bread for them, nor anything needful for their comfort and happiness.  True, he did not “get ahead” in the world, that is, did not lay up money; but One, wiser than he, saw that more than enough would not be good for him, and, therefore, no efforts that he could make would have given him more than what was needed for their “daily bread.”  There was always enough, but none to spare.

I’LL SEE ABOUT IT.

By T. S. Arthur.

Mr. Easy sat alone in his counting-room, one afternoon, in a most comfortable frame, both as regards mind and body.  A profitable speculation in the morning had brought the former into a state of great complacency, and a good dinner had done all that was required for the repose of the latter.  He was in that delicious, half-asleep, half-awake condition, which, occurring after dinner, is so very pleasant.  The newspaper, whose pages at first possessed a charm for his eye, had fallen, with the hand that held it, upon his knee.  His head was gently reclined backward against the top of a high, leather-cushioned chair; while his eyes, half-opened, saw all things around him but imperfectly.  Just at this time the door was quietly opened, and a lad of some fifteen or sixteen years, with a pale, thin face, high forehead, and large dark eyes, entered.  He approached the merchant with a hesitating step, and soon stood directly before him.