of Esau's of his brother Jacob, and agreed that it was far more diffieult for Esau to forgive the brother who had deprived him of his birthright, than for Joseph to be reconciled to those whose sinful conduct had led to his prosperity. "The disposition of Esau. seemed so good," I said, "that had he been reduced to utter poverty by his brother's treachery, he would, I think, have been equally generous. But sometimes we are apt to deceive ourselves about forgiving those who have wronged us. It is easy to say so with our lips, but not to do so in our hearts. For example now, if Charlie were sick and suffering, could you take him in ?” Of course I could," said Walter, "but there would be no forgiveness in that. Any man would do that for his greatest enemy." "But suppose Charlie had become a rich and prosperous man, and that his running away from the village at the time he did, had been the means of raising his fortunes in the world, and that he was in the enjoyment of a good income, while you remained in obscure poverty, could you forgive him then?" "I could," said Walter solemnly, "I should be truly glad to know such had been the case. But it is not so; for I feel sure that he never would have left Alice to work as she has worked, without helping her if he had the means. When he had a little spare money, he always used to spend it in buying a handkerchief, or a ribbon, or a gown piece, or some such gear, for Alice or her mother; "except," he said pausing, "except any sudden temptation made him throw it away. Ah! if he's been lucky, the temptations of the world have been too much for him. He'll have sinned and repented, and sinned and repented over and over again. I should wonderfully like to see him. I did not do my duty to him. He found it harder than most lads to do right, and when he was toward, and came home comfortably, I had it always in my mind about his cheating the boys or something or other, that made me queer to him. He never took to me much, and I don't wonder at it. I made no allowance for him. Who knows but that made him do many things that he would not have thought of? So that it is I who need his forgiveness, not he mine." "If so," I replied, "your punishment was sufficiently severe." "Hush! Master George," he said, "It was all God's doing. He tried me in the way he knew I could least bear it. He put it into my head to bring up the boy, and he made me go in search of him, and without His will I should not have fallen down upon the ice. I had a sinful, proud heart, and he humbled it. I don't mean to say that I should not, if I had the choice, wish to have the use of my eyes again, but I do say that I think it is best that I can't have any choice about it." Walter was in a most communicative mood, for he rarely enlarged upon his own feelings, but the conversation was taking a turn which I did not wish it to take, for I had a particular motive for keeping it on Charlie. An opportunity was soon afforded by Walter. As we returned home, we passed the corner of the churchyard where Walter was buried. He always knew, as if by instinct, when be arrived near the spot. "There" he said, pointing to the grave, "I thought her death a hard thing, but God makes trials easy to them that see his hand in them. If I had seen it then I should not have been so fractious. But now I bless him for taking her away. She has been saved a sight of sorrow. How it would have grieved her to lose the boy, and not know where he was gone. Ah! ah! I should vastly like to see him before I die." "Perhaps you may," I replied, "for it is no less strange than true, that yesterday I received a letter from Charlie himself, and he will be in Millwood shortly if you wish to see him." 66 "You don't mean to say so," said Walter, stopping in his walk, with a look of joy that positively illumined his face. Send for him! send for him! tell him to come! I have prayed for it often and oftentimes, God bless the lad! Do tell me all about him. Yet," he said, hurrying homewards, "let's make haste to tell Alice. She'll be as glad as I.' He walked on quickly and soon reached the cottage. He went in quietly and considerately, and said as he slowly placed himself in the large arm-chair, "Alice, here is tidings of great joy, God is very good. My son was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found." Charlie came home and joy came with him. He had passed through many adventures. On leaving Millwood, he had walked to Liverpool and obtained a berth as a sailor in a vessel bound for New York. He sailed between those ports for about two years, when meeting by chance in the streets at Liverpool a pedlar whom he had known at Millwood, he heard that in consequence of his fall Walter was blind. From that moment he made a solemn vow never to waste an hour of time, or a farthing of money, until he had saved enough money to provide for his father's old age. He had heard while in New York of the large wages which farm-labourers obtained in Canada, and he sailed again for that city and went from thence to Canada, where he obtained a good situation. His resolution kept him firm against temptation. At that time land in Canada might be had for little more than the clearing cost. He soon purchased a small piece with his savings, and the labour he bestowed upon it enabled him to sell it again in a large piece with the same result, and then set sail for England. He deposited with me a sufficient sum of money to buy a small annuity for Walter. He then returned to Canada, and became a prosperous man. From time to time he sent remittances of money which placed Alice in comfort. The blind father rejoices now in the restoration of sight and scenes more beautiful than this world can afford, and Alice, with whom I still lodge, is in her green old age the help of all in the village who are in trouble or distress. THE GOOD MAN, NUMBER TWELVE. (From the French of Emile Souvestre.) THE effects of my fall kept me more than two months at the hospital. Sometimes the slowness of my cure made me despair; but I had a neighbour who gave me courage. He was a poor old man, bent double by suffering, and whose name I think was Pariset, but they generally called him by the number of his bed, which was twelve. This bed had already received him three times, during three long illnesses, and had thus become in a manner his property; thus, "Mr. Number Twelve" was well known to the head physician, the pupils and the nurses. A gentler creature never walked under heaven. When I say walked, it was alas! but a distant recollection to the good man. For nearly two years, he had almost lost the use of his legs. However, as he gained his livelihood by copying manuscript for the lawyers, "he was not very much put out, as he expressed it, and he had continued to write off his briefs on stamped paper. A short time after paralysis attacked his right arm; he then took to writing with his left hand, but, the complaint increasing, it was found necessary to send him to the hospital, where he had "the happiness" to find his own bed disengaged, which almost consoled him. "Bad luck has but its day," said he on this occasion; "every day has a morrow. The good man Number Twelve was affected when he took possession of his bed. An abode in the hospital, which to some people is so hard to endure, was an enjoyment to him. He found there everything he wished. His admiration at the least comfort proved what privations he had suffered until then. He was rapturous on the cleanliness of the linen, the whiteness of the bread, and the strength of the broth! But I was no longer astonished when I learnt, that for twenty years he had lived upon ration bread, herb tea, and white cheese nor could he extol enough the magnificence of the nation which had opened such asylums for the sick poor. Then his thankfulness did not stop there-it embraced all. According to him God had granted special favours to him: men had been particularly benevolent to him, and everything always turned to his advantage: so that it might have been suggested that "Number Twelve "enjoyed "a fool's happiness"! But this folly only inspired one with esteem for the good man, and encouragement for one's self. I think I see him now, sitting up in his bed, in his little black silk cap, with his spectacles, and the old book of verses, which he was always reading over and over again. In the morning, the first rays of light fell on his bed, and he never saw them without rejoicing and thanking God. To see his thankfulness, one would think that the sun was rising for him. He regularly inquired about the progress of my cure, and always found something to say to give me patience. He himself was a living example, which said more than words. When I saw that poor inac tive body, those crippled limbs, and over them that cheerful smiling face, I had not the heart to be angry, or pity myself. "It is a painful moment to endure," said he, in each fit of pain; "relief will come very soon; every day has a morrow. This was the watchword of " Number Twelve "—and he was always repeating it. Maurice, in his visits to me, had come to know him, and never passed his bed without speaking to him. 66 He is a saint" said he to me; "he will not only reach Paradise himself, but he makes others attain to it. Such men ought to be placed at the top of a pillar, to be seen by every body. When one looks at them, it makes one ashamed of one's happiness, and gives one the desire to merit it. What can I do for this good father 'Number Twelve,' to show him how I esteem him?" 66 Try," said I, "if you can find in the shops the second volume of Jean Baptiste Rousseau's poetry; he lost it six years ago, and reads the first over and over again." "What! he likes books!" replied Maurice, a little angrily ; (for Maurice was no scholar): "in truth, one may well say every one has his weakness. Never mind; write me down on a bit of paper the name you said, and I will look it out for him." He actually came back a week afterwards with a bound book, which he presented in triumph to the sick old man, who, when he opened it, seemed at first astonished; but Maurice having told him that it was by my advice that he had procured him this second volume of Jean Baptiste Rousseau, father "Number Twelve" thanked him most gratefully. However, I had my doubts, and when the master-mason was gone, I asked to see the book. My old neighbour coloured, stammered, and tried to turn the conversation; but, at last, quite against his will, he held out the book to me,-it was an old royal almanack! The bookseller, taking advantage of Maurice's ignorance, had given it to him instead of the volume he had asked for. I burst out laughing, but "Number Twelve" quickly bid me be silent. "Do you wish Mr. Maurice to hear you?" cried he. "I would rather lose my last arm than deprive him of the pleasure of his gift. Yesterday I had no wish for the royal almanack, but I might have wanted it by and bye; every day has a morrow. Besides, it is a very instructive book; I have seen the names and titles of a crowd of princes, whom I had never before heard of." The almanack was carefully kept by the side of the book of poetry, and the sick old man never failed to turn over the leaves whenever he saw Maurice, who was quite proud and pleased about it. "I seem to have made him a famous present," he said to me every time. Towards the end of my abode at the hospital the strength of father Number Twelve" rapidly diminished. At first, he lost all power of moving. Then his speech failed him. His eyes alone still smiled upon us. One morning, however, it seemed to me that his look was duller than usual. I therefore got up, and went to him, to ask him if he wished to drink; he made a movement of his eyelids to thank me, and, at the same moment, the first rays of the sun shone upon his bed. Then his eye brightened, like a light that sparkles up before it goes out; he seemed to acknowledge this last favour from the goodness of God; then I saw his head fall on one side; his honest heart had ceased to beat, and there were no more days for him. He had entered on the eternal morrow. WISHING. If wishes were efforts, most men would be great, If wishes were efforts, we all should be wise, |