But Annie was silently crying beside him. John Greylton wiped his eyes, and then he called his sister Margaret to the window.

"Annie and I have been looking at the old pines, and you can guess what we were thinking about. As for myself," he added, "I never see those trees without feeling saddened and rebuked. I never recall that season of error, without the deepest shame and grief. And still the old pines stand. Well, Madge, one day they will shade our graves; and of late I have thought that day would dawn very soon."

Annie Bermond let the curtain fall very slowly forward, and buried her face in her hands; but the two old pilgrims by her side, John and Margaret Greylston, looked at each other with a smile of hope and joy.

They had long been "good and faithful servants," and now they awaited the coming of "the Master," with a calm, sweet patience, knowing it would be well with them, when He would call them hence.

The pines creaked mournfully in the winter wind, and the stars looked down upon bleak wastes, and snow-shrouded meadows; yet the red blaze heaped blithely on the hearth, taking in, in its fair light, the merry circle sitting side by side, and the thoughtful little group standing so quietly by the window. And even now the picture fades, and is gone. The curtain falls--the story of John and Margaret Greylston is ended.

THE WORLD WOULD BE THE BETTER FOR IT.

IF men cared less for wealth and fame, And less for battle-fields and glory; If, writ in human hearts, a name Seemed better than in song and story; If men, instead of nursing pride, Would learn to hate and to abhor it-- If more relied On Love to guide, The world would be the better for it.

If men dealt less in stocks and lands, And more in bonds and deeds fraternal; If Love's work had more willing hands To link this world to the supernal; If men stored up Love's oil and wine, And on bruised human hearts would pour it; If "yours" and "mine"

Would once combine, The world would be the better for it.

If more would act the play of Life, And fewer spoil it in rehearsal; If Bigotry would sheathe its knife Till Good became more universal; If Custom, gray with ages grown, Had fewer blind men to adore it-- If talent shone In truth alone, The world would be the better for it.

If men were wise in little things-- Affecting less in all their dealings-- If hearts had fewer rusted strings To isolate their kindly feelings; If men, when Wrong beats down the Right, Would strike together and restore it-- If Right made Might In every fight, The world would be the better for it.

TWO SIDES TO A STORY.

"HAVE you seen much of your new neighbours, yet?" asked Mrs. Morris, as she stepped in to have an hour's social chat with her old friend, Mrs.

Freeman.

"Very little," was the reply. "Occasionally I have seen the lady walking in her garden, and have sometimes watched the sports of the children on the side-walk, but this is all. It is not like the country, you know. One may live here for years, and not become acquainted with the next-door neighbours."

"Some may do so," replied Mrs. Morris, "but, for my part, I always like to know something of those around me. It is not always desirable to make the acquaintance of near neighbours, but by a little observation it is very easy to gain an insight into their characters and position in society. The family which has moved into the house next to yours, for instance, lived near to me for nearly two years, and although I never spoke to one of them, I can tell you of some strange transactions which took place in their house."

"Indeed!" replied Mrs. Freeman, with little manifestation of interest or curiosity; but Mrs. Morris was too eager to communicate her information to notice her friend's manner, and lowering her voice to a confidential tone, continued:--

"There is an old lady in their family whom they abuse in the most shocking manner. She is very rich, and they by threats and ill-treatment extort large sums of money from her."

"A singular way of inducing any one to bestow favours," replied Mrs.

Freeman, dryly. "Why does not the old lady leave there?"

"Bless your heart, my dear friend, she cannot get an opportunity! They never suffer her to leave the house unattended. Once or twice, indeed, she succeeded in getting into the street, but they discovered her in a moment, and actually forced her into the house. You smile incredulously, but if you had been an eye-witness of their proceedings, as I have, or had heard the screams of the poor creature, and the heavy blows which they inflict, you would be convinced of the truth of what I tell you."

"I do not doubt the truth of your story in the least, my dear Mrs.

Morris. I only think that in this case, as in most others, there must be two sides to the story. It is almost incredible that such barbarous treatment could continue for any great length of time without discovery and exposure."

"Oh, as to that, people are not fond of getting themselves into trouble by meddling with their neighbours' affairs. I am very cautious about it myself. I would not have mentioned this matter to any one but an old friend like yourself. It seemed best to put you on your guard."

"Thank you," was the smiling reply. "It is hardly probable that I shall be called upon to make any acquaintance with my new neighbours but if I am, I certainly shall not forget your caution."

Satisfied that she had succeeded, at least partially, in awakening the suspicions of her friend, Mrs. Morris took her departure, while Mrs.

Freeman, quite undisturbed by her communications, continued her usual quiet round of domestic duties, thinking less of the affairs of her neighbours than of those of her own household.

Occasionally she saw the old lady whom Mrs. Morris had mentioned walking in the adjoining garden, sometimes alone, and sometimes accompanied by the lady of the house, or one of the children. There was nothing striking in her appearance. She looked cheerful and contented, and showed no signs of confinement or abuse. Once, when Mrs. Freeman was in her garden, she had looked over the fence, and praised the beauty of her flowers, and when a bunch was presented to her, had received them with that almost childish delight which aged people often manifest.

Weeks pa.s.sed on, and the remarks of Mrs. Morris were almost forgotten, when Mrs. Freeman was aroused one night by loud cries, apparently proceeding from the adjoining house; and on listening intently could plainly distinguish the sound of heavy blows, and also the voice of the old lady in question, as if in earnest expostulation and entreaty.

Mrs. Freeman aroused her husband, and together they listened in anxiety and alarm. For nearly an hour the sounds continued, but at length all was again quiet. It was long, however, before they could compose themselves to rest. It was certainly strange and unaccountable, and there was something so inhuman in the thought of abusing an aged woman that their hearts revolted at the idea.

Still Mrs. Freeman maintained, as was her wont, that there must be two sides to the story; and after vainly endeavouring to imagine what the other side could be, she fell asleep, and was undisturbed until morning.

All seemed quiet the next day, and Mrs. Freeman had somewhat recovered from the alarm of the previous night, when she was again visited by her friend, Mrs. Morris. As usual, she had confidential communications to make, and particularly wished the advice of Mrs. Freeman in a matter which she declared weighed heavily upon her mind; and being a.s.sured that they should be undisturbed, began at once to impart the weighty secret.

"You remember Mrs. Dawson, who went with her husband to Europe, a year or two ago?"

"Certainly I do," was the reply. "I was well acquainted with her."

"Do you recollect a girl who had lived with her for several years? I think her name was Mary Berkly."

"Quite well. Mrs. Dawson placed great confidence in her, and wished to take her abroad, but Mary was engaged to an honest carpenter, in good business, and wisely preferred a comfortable house in her own country."

"She had other reasons, I suspect," replied Mrs. Morris, mysteriously, "but you will hear. This Mary Berkly, or as she is now called, Mary White, lives not far from my present residence. Her husband is comfortably off, and his wife is not obliged to work, excepting in her own family, but still she will occasionally, as a favour, do up a few muslins for particular persons. You know she was famous for her skill in those things. The other day, having a few pieces which I was particularly anxious to have look nice, I called upon her to see if she would wash them for me. She was not at home, but her little niece, who lives with her, a child of four years old, said that Aunt Mary would be in directly, and asked me to walk into the parlour. I did so, and the little thing stood by my side chattering away like a magpie. In reply to my questions as to whether she liked to live with her aunt, what she amused herself with, &c., &c., she entered into a long account of her various playthings, and ended by saying that she would show me a beautiful new doll which her good uncle had given her, if I would please to unlock the door of a closet near where I was sitting, as she could not turn the key.

"To please the child I unlocked the door. She threw it wide open, and to my astonishment I saw that it was filled with valuable silver plate, china, and other articles of similar kind, some of which I particularly remembered having seen at Mrs. Dawson's."

"Perhaps she gave them to Mary," suggested Mrs. Freeman. "She was quite attached to her."

"Impossible!" exclaimed Mrs. Morris. "Valuable silver plate is not often given to servants. But I have not yet finished. Just as the child had found the doll Mrs. White entered, and on seeing the closet-door open, said sternly to the child,

"'Rosy, you did very wrong to open that door without my leave. I shall not let you take your doll again for a week;' and looking very red and confused, she hastily closed it, and turned the key. Now, to my mind, these are suspicious circ.u.mstances, particularly as I recollect that Mr.

and Mrs. Dawson were robbed of silver plate shortly before they went to Europe, and no trace could be found of the thieves."

"True," replied Mrs. Freeman, thoughtfully; "I recollect the robbery very well. Still I cannot believe that Mary had anything to do with it.

I was always pleased with her modest manner, and thought her an honest, capable girl."

"She is very smooth-faced, I know," answered Mrs. Morris, "but appearances are certainly against her. I am confident that the articles I saw belonged to Mrs. Dawson."

"There may be another side to the story, however," remarked her friend; "but why not mention your suspicions to Mrs. Dawson? You know she has returned, and is boarding in the upper part of the city. I have her address, somewhere."

"I know where she lives; but would you really advise me to meddle with the affair? I shall make enemies of Mr. and Mrs. White, if they hear of it, and I like to have the good-will of all, both, rich and poor."

"I do not believe that Mary would take anything wrongfully," replied Mrs. Freeman; "but if my suspicions were as fully aroused as yours seem to be, I presume I should mention what I saw to Mrs. Dawson, if it were only for the sake of hearing the other side of the story, and thus removing such unpleasant doubts from my mind. And, indeed, if you really think that the articles which you saw were stolen, it becomes your duty to inform the owners thereof, or you become, in a measure, a partaker of the theft."

"That is true," said Mrs. Morris, rising, "and in that way I might ultimately gain the ill-will of Mrs. Dawson; therefore I think I will go at once and tell her my suspicions."