What angel-spirit, prompted by the will of its Divine Master, was it that whispered to the little child to go comfort the sorrowing boy, and with her kind sympathy and sweet offering to draw him back from the dreadful precipice on which he stood, and lift him from darkness and despair? His mother's, perchance. A bright light shone in the boy's eye. His face was losing its despairing expression. The flowers were speaking to his heart, whispering of Trust, Faith, Hope! Yes, he must live on, brave all sorrows, trample down difficulties, and with G.o.d's blessing try to live to be a good and useful man.

"Why, Minnie! what do you mean? Why did you give those beautiful flowers to that strange boy? I never saw such a child as you are!"

"Mamma, I gave them to him because he looked so sad, just as if he had not a happy home, or loving papa and mamma like I have. I felt so sorry for him, and I wanted to tell him so. I'm sure he hasn't got any mother, or he would not look so."

"Never mind, Laura, my dear. Do not worry about Minnie. She is all right. Let her act from the dictates of her kind, innocent heart,"

returned the little one's father.

"Oh, yes! let her alone, and in years to come she will from the dictates of her kind heart, be giving herself away to some motherless, fameless and moneyless young man, I fear!" said the worldly and far-seeing mother.

"But not senseless man, I'll warrant you," was the laughing reply.

"Why, William, my dear boy, why can you not be satisfied to remain here with me? Why do you wish to go away? 'Idle life!' 'Making a living and do some good!' Humph, sir! you need not be idle. Read to me; ride with me. As for your living, sir, I made that for you before you were born; and now I intend you shall enjoy it. Now, my boy, my son in all my heart's dearest affections, stay with me. Wait until the old man is gone; then you will have time enough to be useful to others."

"Mr. Lincoln--uncle, father!--yes, more than father--your wish must be mine. Did you not, fifteen years ago, take in a poor, wretched, friendless, homeless boy--bless him with your care and protection, educate, fulfill all his brightest hopes by giving him a profession, which will not only make him independent, but enable him to help and comfort others. Let me prove my grat.i.tude in any way."

"Come, come, do not talk of grat.i.tude. Oh, my boy, if you only knew what deep joy it has afforded me, having you here. I will tell you now, William, why it was I so readily opened my heart and home to the little wanderer I found that Thanksgiving afternoon so long ago. When I first looked into your eyes there was a strange, familiar expression about them that aroused my interest. Upon questioning you I found that the son of the only woman I had ever loved was before me! My heart yearned to help you; otherwise I should have relieved you from present want, and then informed your father of your whereabouts. Yes, my boy, the love I bore your mother was never transferred to another woman.

Your father and myself were her suitors at the same time. He proved the fortunate one. Having you with me all these years has been a great solace; and now say no more about grat.i.tude. Just love me, and stay with me."

And Uncle Lincoln added, humorously:

"Perhaps I may be doing some good by preventing some harm. I'll keep you from practicing and experimenting on some poor creature. Oh, you young doctors are always very anxious to make a beginning. 'Pon my word, I have quite forgotten to open my little Minnie's letter. Coming here to see her uncle, and will be with us to-morrow. I'm glad, very glad. Well, it is rather strange that the two I love best in the world should not know each other. It has happened that you have been off at college or attending lectures each time she has been here. Guard well your heart, boy. Every one loves her, and she no one better than her parents and old uncle. Much to her mother's regret, she has refused the finest offers in town. She does not care a mote for the t.i.tle of 'old maid' with which her mother often threatens her. She is twenty-one, and has never been in love, she says."

"I think I am quite safe, sir. I am not at all susceptible, and it is not likely that a young lady of her position in society and of such beauty will cast a thought on me."

The next day the old gentleman had the pleasure of introducing those he loved so well; and, to his infinite delight, saw his darling Minnie had certainly made a desired impression on his young _protege_.

"Here he is, Minnie! the boy who stole half my heart away from you. I do not know how you will settle it with him, unless you take his in pay."

Often during the evening Uncle Lincoln noticed Will's gaze lingering on his niece, and there was a softer light than usual in his fine eyes; but, to his great regret, his boy did not appear to his usual advantage. He was very silent, and his mind seemed absent--far away.

And so it truly was. In the lovely girl before him William Archer beheld the joyous child who, on that dark day, spoke so kindly and saved him from--he dreaded to think what!

Uncle Lincoln rubbed his hands and chuckled merrily to himself.

Everything was working to his entire satisfaction. These two impenetrable hearts were growing wonderfully congenial, he thought.

A few days before Minnie's visit was concluded, William brought out and placed in her hands a bunch of withered flowers; told his story of how, long years ago, her sweet sympathy had cheered his desolate heart and made him feel that there was still love in the world, then so dark to him; that her kind action had awakened in his almost paralyzed mind better thoughts, and let him know the only way to gain peace and happiness, and, finally, meet his mother, was in living on--putting his trust and faith in G.o.d's goodness and mercy!

And then he told his love and gained hers; and, with her dear hand clasped in his, stood waiting Uncle Lincoln's blessing!

"Minnie might do very much better," said the aspiring mamma; "but it was Uncle Lincoln's wish."

So the next Thanksgiving was to be the wedding day.

In a luxuriously-furnished apartment, surrounded by everything that contributes to make life pleasant, sat an old man.

Every now and then he would raise his bowed head from the clasped hands, gaze anxiously around the room, and then, with a deep sigh, relapse again into his att.i.tude of grief and despair. At last he speaks:

"Thanksgiving night again, and, for the first time in fifteen years, she has failed to hover round me, and I have not heard the sighing voice inquire: 'Where is my boy? How did you keep your promised word?'

Oh! perhaps the mother has found her child. He may be with her now.

Oh! I would give everything--my poor, miserable life--to recall that terrible day's injustice. My brave, n.o.ble boy! and how were you repaid? Oh! I have suffered terribly for all my neglect and wrong of my motherless boy! All gone from me, all the healthy, beautiful children; all taken away! We were not worthy of those precious gifts.

G.o.d took them to himself. Now, what comfort do all these riches bring me? Nothing! nothing! and my poor, childless wife! How bitterly she has repented her wrong!

"Oh, Willie! Willie, my boy! Where are you now?"

"Here, father, here! kneeling, and waiting for your love and blessing."

"Am I dreaming? Oh! cruel dreams! I shall awaken, as often before, and find how false you are!"

"No, it's no dream, father! Give me your hand. Now, you feel your erring boy is back beside you, praying your forgiveness for all these years of silence--causing you so much sorrow!"

The old man was clasped to his son's bosom. Long he held him thus, while a sob of joy burst from the father's thankful heart.

"Father, speak to my wife; you have another child now. She it was who brought me back to you this blessed day. This, the anniversary of my mother's death! also of the day of my greatest peril, is now the happiest of my life--my wedding day, and restoration to my father's heart!

"Where is my stepmother? I would see and try to comfort her. Oh! let this day be one of perfect reconciliation. Let us make it a thanksgiving from the inmost heart."

And now may we all, who have aught of ill dwelling in our hearts, go and be of kindly feeling one toward the other again. Let not the coming Thanksgiving's sun go down on our wrath. Let it not be merely a thanksgiving in words--a day of feasting--but a heart's feasting on peace and good will.

THE END.

THE IRISH REFUGEE.

The only son of his mother, and she was a widow.--Luke vii. 12.

Long years shall see thee roaming A sad and weary way, Like traveler tired at gloaming Of a sultry summer day.

But soon a home will greet thee, Though low its portals be, And ready kinsmen meet thee, And peace that will not flee.--PERCIVAL.

It was a lovely morning, that last Sat.u.r.day in July, 1849. The sun had not yet risen when our family party, consisting of Aunt and Uncle Clive, Cousin Christine and myself, took seats at an early breakfast-table. A capacious carriage, well packed with presents for country cousins, stood at the door, ready to convey us to Virginia, to spend the month of August. We, a merry set of grown-up children, were too delighted with our prospective pleasure to eat anything, and so we soon left the table and put on our bonnets and hats, preparatory to a start. We entered the carriage.

"Now, then, are we all ready?" asked Uncle Clive.

"Yes," replied aunt.

"Has nothing been forgotten?"

"No--but stay! Where is Cousin Peggy's cap, Chrissy?"