“‘The tea’s all out.’

“To which I would have replied sharply—­

“’Why, in the name of goodness, did not you say so this morning?  You knew that you had used the last drawing!  I declare you are the most provoking creature I ever knew.  You’ll have to go to the store and get some.’

“‘I’m not fit to be seen in the street,’ she would in all probability have replied.

“And then I, losing all patience, would have soundly scolded her, and gained nothing but a sick-headache, perhaps, for my pains.  Tea, in all probability, would have been served at about eight o’clock.  You see the difference.”

“And a very material one it is.”

“Isn’t it?  As you well said, there is a power in patience undreamed of by those who seek not its exercise.  Next morning, when I had any occasion to speak to Hannah, I did so with much mildness, and if I had occasion to find fault, requested a change rather than enunciated a reproof.  The girl changed as if by magic.  She became respectful in her manner toward me, and evinced a constant anxiety to do every thing as I wished to have it done.  Not once since have we had a meal as much as ten minutes later than the appointed time.”

I could not but express the happiness I felt at the change, and urge my excellent friend to persevere.  This she has done, and the whole aspect of things in her family has changed.

There are times, however, when, from ill-health, or a return of old states, she recedes again into fretfulness; but the reaction upon her is so immediate and perceptible, that she is driven in self-defence to patience and forbearance, the result of which is order and quiet in her family just in the degree that patience and forbearance are exercised.

AN OLD MAN’S RECOLLECTIONS.

“I AM not a very old man,” said a venerable friend to me, one day, “yet my head has become whitened and my cheeks furrowed:—­and often, as I pause and lean upon my staff, at the corners of the streets, the present reality gives place to dreams of the past, and I see here, instead of the massive pile of brick and marble, the low frame dwelling, and there, in place of the lines of tall warehouses, humble tenements.  If, in my aimless wanderings about the city, I turn my steps towards the suburbs, I find that change, too, has been there.  I miss the woods and fields where once, with the gay companions of early years, I spent many a summer hour.  Beautiful dwellings have sprung up, it seems to me as if by magic, where but yesterday I plucked fruit from overladen branches, or flung myself to rest among the tall grass or ripening grain.