Blade-O'-Grass. Golden Grain. and Bread and Cheese and Kisses.

'-Well, sir, as I was saying, I am afraid that my Bessie's name has got mixed up with yours by people's tongues in such a way as to cause sorrow to her and to me. I have heard, sir, that she was seen one day-nearly a year ago now-go into your house, and that has been set against her, and flung into her teeth, as a body might say. Well, she did go into your house that once-and only that once, mind! – and took a letter from me which you desired me to send by her last year when I was in trouble. You helped us then, sir, and I am grateful to you, though I can't pay you. And we've got it into our heads-Bessie and me-that that, and the earrings you gave her-for they've been talked about too, and that's the reason we sent them back to you-was the cause of a greater sorrow to my poor girl than she has ever experienced in her life.'

'O!' exclaimed young Mr. Million, with a slight sneer in his tone. 'You mean because the affair between Miss Sparrow, and that cub, George Naldret, has been broken off.'

From Bessie's eyes came such a flash that if the idle young dog could have flown through the door, and have disappeared there and then instantaneously, he would have gladly availed himself of the opportunity. Old Ben Sparrow's blood; also, was up.

'Be kind enough to go, sir,' he said, with more dignity of manner than Bessie had ever seen in him; 'and wherever we are, either here or elsewhere, leave us to ourselves and our troubles.'

Their voices roused the man in possession; he yawned, and opened his eyes. Young Mr. Million saw here an opportunity to assert himself as the heir of a great brewery, and to indulge in a small piece of malice, at one and the same time.

'I must show my sense of your ingratitude,' he said, 'by somewhat severe measures, and therefore you will arrange at once for the repayment of the money I have advanced to you. I must remind you that there is such a thing as imprisonment for debt. As for the money which your son embezzled from our firm, I must leave my father to settle that with you. In the mean time-'

'In the mean time,' interrupted the man in possession, to the astonishment of all, 'I'm the master of this house, being in possession; and as you're not down in the inventory, I must request you to leave.'

And without allowing the idle young dog to utter another word, the man in possession, with a wrist of iron, twisted him round, and thrust him from the old grocer's shop.

So young Mr. Million, for a fresh supply of wild oats, had to go to another market. And doubtless succeeded in obtaining them: they are plentiful enough.

Ben Sparrow could not but thank the man in possession for his friendly interference.

'Don't mention it,' said the man in possession, adding, with an odd smile, 'he's not down in the inventory, you know.'

The interview had caused old Ben and Bessie great agitation, and left them sadly distressed; but nothing could exceed the consideration of the man in possession. He did not ask them for a word of explanation. When, indeed, the old man stumblingly referred to it, he turned the conversation, and asked for a sheet of paper and an envelope. These being supplied to him, he wrote a note, and when, after putting it in the envelope and addressing it, he looked up, his hitherto sad face wore such a bright expression that Ben whispered to his granddaughter,

'Really, Bessie, he is a good fellow; he puts heart into one;' and said aloud, 'Can I post the letter for you, sir?

'No, thank you,' was the reply; 'I can send it by a messenger. I mustn't let you out of my sight, you know. The landlord said I was accountable for you.'

Old Ben began to feel as if he were in prison again.

It was dark when Tottie was brought home; she ran into the parlour calling for grandfather and Bessie, and jumped into their arms, and kissed them, and pulled old Ben's hair; she seemed to bring light in with her. 'Is that Tottie?' asked the man in possession in a tremulous tone.

'Yes, sir, yes,' replied old Ben. 'Go to the gentleman, my dear.'

Something like a sob came from the man in possession as he lifted Tottie, and kissed her; and when, a little while afterwards, the lamp was lighted, and Tottie was seen curled up contentedly in the man's arms, eating sweets which he was giving her: with such a sweet tooth as Tottie had, it was no wonder she was easily bought over: old Ben whispered to Bessie,

'Depend upon it, my dear, he has got a little daughter at home, and that makes him fond of Tottie.'

Everything about this strange man was so gentle, that they actually looked upon him as a friend instead of an enemy.

SOFTLY, SWEETLY, PROCEEDS THE HYMN OF HOME

'It is a story about two friends-' It is the man in possession who is speaking. Tottie is lying in his arms as contentedly as if she has known him all her life; he has told her the prettiest of stories, and the child has crowed and laughed over them, until she is almost tired with the pleasure and excitement. And now, although it is very nearly eleven o'clock, and time to think of going to bed, Bessie and her grandfather find themselves listening to a story which he says he desires to tell them. Of course they dare not refuse to listen.

'It is a story about two friends-mainly about those, although the dearest hopes of others better and purer than they are mixed up in it The story is a true one. What shall I call these friends, so as to distinguish them? Shall I say George for one- What is the matter, my dear?' For Bessie has looked with a startled glance into the stranger's face. 'George is a common name enough, and this man whom I call George is a good man, in every sense of the word. Say, shall I call him George?'

'Yes, if you please,' replies Bessie faintly, turning her face from him.

'And the other-I will call him Saul.'

'Bessie, my dear!' exclaims old Ben Sparrow. 'Do you hear? Saul and George!'

Bessie's hand steals into his, and the stranger continues.

'Say, then, Saul and George. They lived and grew to manhood in just such a neighbourhood as this. Saul was the elder of the two by six or seven years; but notwithstanding the difference in their ages, they became firm friends. They talked much together, and read together; for Saul was a great reader, and took delight in studying, and (according to his own thinking) setting wrong things right. I believe that, at one time of his life, he really had a notion that it was his mission to redress the wrongs of his class; at all events, it is certain that he elected himself the champion of his fellow-workmen, and as he had the fatal gift of being able to speak well and fluently, the men listened to him, and accepted his high-flown words as the soundest of logic. George admired his friend, although he did not agree with him; and when he was a man he took an opportunity of vowing eternal friendship to Saul. Such a vow meant something more than words with George; for he was constant and true to the dictates of his heart Where he professed friendship, there he would show it. Where he professed love, there would he feel it. And it might be depended upon that neither in his friendship nor his love would he ever change. He was no idle talker. Saul, working himself into a state of false enthusiasm respecting his mission, waited but for an opportunity to raise his flag. The opportunity came. A dispute arose between master and men in a certain workshop; Saul plunged himself into the dispute, and by his fatal gift inflamed the men, and fanned the discontent until it spread to other workshops. Neither men nor masters would yield. A strike was the result. In this strike Saul was the principal agitator; he was the speaker and the man upon whom all depended, in whom all trusted. Hear, in a few words, what occurred then. After making things as bitter as he could; after making the men believe that the masters were their natural enemies; after making a speech one night, filled with false conclusions, but which fired the men to a more determined resistance; after doing all this, Saul suddenly deserted his followers, and left them in the lurch. He told them that, upon more serious consideration, he had been led to alter his mind, and that he was afraid of the misery a longer fight would bring upon them and their families. The men were justly furious with him; they called him names which he deserved to be called; and the result was that the men returned to work upon the old terms, and that all of them-masters and men-turned their backs upon the man who had betrayed them. Only one among them remained his friend. That one was George. From that day Saul began to sink; he could get no work; and he dragged down with him a woman who loved him, who had trusted in him, and whom he had robbed of her good name. Stay, my dear,' said the man in possession, placing a restraining hand upon Bessie's sleeve; the girl had risen, uncertain whether to go or stay. 'You must hear what I have to say; I will endeavour to be brief. This woman had a child, a daughter, born away from the neighbourhood in which Saul was known. Her love was great; her grief was greater. Saul showed himself during this time to be not only a traitor, but a coward. He took to drink. What, then, did this good woman-ah, my dear, how good she was only Saul knows! – what did this good woman resolve to do, for her child's sake? She resolved that she would not allow her child to grow up and be pointed at as a child of shame; that she would endeavour to find some place where it could be cared for, and where, if happier times did not come to her, the child might grow up in the belief that her parents were dead. Shame should not cast its indelible shadow over her darling's life. Saul, in his better mood, agreed with her. "I have no friends," said this woman to Saul; "have you? Have you a friend who, out of his compassion for the child and friendship for you, would take my darling from me, and care for it as his own?" Saul had no friend but one. George! He went to George, and told his trouble, and this dear noble friend, this Man! arranged with a neighbour to take the child, and bring her up. He promised sacredly to keep Saul's secret, and only to tell one person the story of the poor little forsaken one. "I may marry one day, Saul," he said, "and then I must tell it to my wife." In this way the mother obtained her desire; in this way came about her love's sacrifice!'

Tick-tick-tick-comes from the old-fashioned clock in the corner. Bessie has sunk into her chair, and her head is bowed upon the table. She hears the clear tick, and thinks of a year ago, when, standing at the door with her lover, it sounded so painfully in her ears. What pain, what pleasure, has this strange man brought to her! For she knows that the story he is telling is true, and that Saul's friend, George, is her George, whom she has loved truly and faithfully during all this sad year. What pain! What pleasure! What pain to feel that George is parted from her for ever! What pleasure to know that he is without a stain, that he is even more noble than her love had painted him! She raises her head; her eyes are almost blinded by her tears; she stretches forth her arms for Tottie.

'Let me nurse her!' she sobs.

'No, my dear,' says the man in possession; but he places Tottie's lips to hers, and then stoops and kisses Bessie's tears which have fallen on the little one's face. 'There is more to tell. Shall I go on?'

'Yes.'

'A happy time comes to George. He falls in love with a tender-hearted, pure-souled girl-'

Bessie kneels at his feet, and looks in bewilderment at the man's strange face, at his snow-white hair, and in gratitude raises his hand to her lips.

'There, there, child!' he says; 'sit down: you interrupt my story. They are engaged to be married, and George is anxious to make a home for his bird. But trade is slack, and he can save no money. Then comes a false man, whom we will call Judas, into the story, who, under the pretence of friendship for George, gives him a passage-ticket to the colonies, where George can more quickly save money to buy the home to which he yearns to bring his bird. But on the very night, within three hours of the time when George is to look his last upon the little house in which he was born, he learns from Saul that this pretended friend has played him false, has told him lies, and has given him the ticket only for the purpose of getting him out of the country, so that Judas can pay court to the girl who reigns in George's heart. Other doubts and misunderstandings unfortunately accumulate in these critical moments; George learns that the girl was seen to go into the house where Judas's father lives; learns that Judas has given her a pair of earrings; learns that Judas was seen by George's mother to place a letter in the girl's hands-'

'It was for grandfather!' cries Bessie. 'It contained money for grandfather to help him out of his trouble!'

'Hush! my dear! What can you know of this story of mine? When George learns all this he is in an agony of despair. He takes the ticket from his pocket, and is about to destroy it, when Saul falls on his knees at his friend's feet, and begs, entreats in his agony for the ticket, so that he may go instead of George. For Saul's dear woman has left him; has charged him, by his love for her and for their child, to make an effort to lift them from shame; and he sees no way- no way but this which is suddenly opened to him. George gives his friend the ticket, and the next day Saul bids good-bye to the land which holds all that is dear to his heart.'

The man in possession pauses here, and old Ben Sparrow gazes earnestly at him. When he resumes, his voice grows more solemn.

'Saul reaches his destination, and after much wandering finds a shelter in the mountains with a little colony of gold-diggers. He makes a friend there; David. Another; David's wife. God rest their souls! Another; David's little daughter. Saul finds gold, and thanks God for His goodness. He will come home and make atonement But the snow season sets in, and he and his companions are imprisoned by mountains of snow whose shallowest depth is sufficient for a man's grave if he is buried upstanding. An awful night comes, when the snow-drift walls up their tents. In the morning the tents are hemmed in; the diggers cannot open their doors. Near to the tent in which Saul and David and David's wife and David's little daughter live is a tree. Saul climbs to the roof of the tent, breaks through it, climbs on to the tree, and calls to his friends to follow him. David tries, and fails; he falls back into the tent, and hurts himself to death. Saul, in an agony, calls out for David's little daughter, and the mother succeeds in raising the child through the roof of the tent; Saul clutches the little girl and takes her to his heart. All this time the storm is raging; the snow rises higher and higher. David commands his wife to save herself; she refuses, and stays to nurse him, and slowly, slowly, my dears! the snow falls; the walls of the tent give way; and David's wife meets a noble death, and both find their grave.'

Awe-struck they listen to this strange man's story. A look of pity steals into his face-and then he murmurs to himself, 'No; why should I bring sadness upon them this night?' And says aloud:

'The tree to which Saul clings for dear life with David's little daughter, one other man manages to reach. His story you shall hear to-morrow; sufficient here to say that it is a strange one, and it comes strangely to Saul's ears. He bequeaths his gold to Saul for a good purpose. But this man is weak; his strength fails him in the night; and when the next morning's sun rises Saul and David's little daughter are the only ones left. Can you picture Saul to yourself clinging to the tree, holding in his arms the life of a dear little one? Can you realise the agony of the time? Can you believe that his grief and tribulation are so great during the two terrible days that follow, that his hair turns snow-white-'

'But he is saved?' cries Bessie and her grandfather at once.

'He is saved.'

'And David's little daughter?'

'Is saved also, God be thanked!'

They draw a long breath.

'But little remains to be told. Saul comes home, bringing David's little daughter with him-bringing gold with him. He seeks his dear woman. He marries her. He hears that the old man and the dear girl who have protected and reared his child are in trouble-that an execution is to be put into the old man's shop for rent-'

'And he becomes a man in possession!' cries old Ben, starting up in indescribable excitement. 'O, dear! O, dear! He becomes a man in possession!'

The tolling of a bell is heard.

'As you say. Is not that the Westminster clock beginning to chime the hour? Listen for one minute more. When Judas comes in this afternoon, do you think the man in possession is asleep? No; he is awake, and hears every word that passes, and such a joy comes into his heart as he cannot describe-for he thinks of George, that dear friend, that noble friend, that Man! What does the man in possession do when Judas has gone? He writes a letter, doesn't he? Hark! the last hour is tolling! Twelve!'