carpet, we found the mother and two children-the little girl whom we saw in the afternoon, and a little boy, not over four years old, asleep close beside a wood fire.

We were welcomed with tears falling down the cheeks of the lady as she bade us enter and take seats. After thanking us and making excuses for her appearance, she told us her story. Her husband, an English bricklayer, came to this country early in the spring, but on arriving in this city did not readily find work, and while out looking for something to do, became disheartened, and enlisted for three years. He left the city the week after his enlistment, leaving his family nothing with which to purchase the necessities of life. The few spare articles of furniture which the little broken-hearted family possessed, and could do without, she had pawned, until only two broken chairs and a table, a lounge and a stove, with a few dishes formed the entire stock of her household furniture. Her husband had promised to send her some money, but she had not heard a word from him since he marched down Long Wharf off to the war. Her narrative was often interrupted by scalding tears, but there was such an earnestness in it, that both visitors felt relieved when she had finished. Our friend then asked her where she got the ring she wore upon her finger. She said that just as she was leaving Liverpool, her mother, farther and sister came to see her off, and as she was about to step on board the ship, her father took from his finger the ring and put it into her hand, and told her always to wear it, and if ever in distress to show it to some one. She had worn it ever since, and had forgotten, in her troubles, her father's advice. She slipped the wring off of her finger and showed it to us, and after viewing it a short time, our companion inquired if her father was a Mason. She answesed that he was, and Master of one of the lodges in Liverpool. We were an interested spectator during the whole scene. We looked at the letter "G," but to our eyes it had no meaning, and innocently enough we inquired of our companion what it meant. "What does it mean?" he repeated after us. "Why, it means that this woman is my brother's daughter, and she is in distress, and that it is my

duty and pleasure to help her." And we know that he was as good as his word. The dreary home was made happy, and the hearts of the lone one and her children were bound up with the silken cords of love and charity. Our companion interested himself in finding out where the husband was, and it was not many months before remittances came regularly from the patriot in the gallant army to his family at home.

The wife sent a letter home to her father, and to-day our brother (for we have learned the value of the letter "G") has in his possession a token and a letter of thanks, as rich in gratitude as words can make it, from the brother Mason who presides over a lodge of the craft in Liverpool. The husband served his time amid the canebrakes of Louisiana, and returned to thank him in person who had cared for his wife and little ones in his absence. Thus the simple letter "G" may teach all a lesson, and prompt us to do works of love and charity that make the heart glad; for "it is more blessed to give than to receive.-Loomis' Masonic Journal.

UNKIND WORDS.

Do the doctors know that half the wives in the world die of this complaint? "He never spoke an unkind word to his wife." Yes, but did not he remember, now and then, to speak a kind one? Did he have any sympathy for her bodily or mental ails? Or was he blind and deaf to both, treating them with cutting indifference, which in time chills the most loving heart, and silences its throbs forever. Men are verily guilty in this regard. They take a young girl from the warm atmosphere of a loving, cheerful home; and after a few brief weeks of devotion, leave her to battle single-handed with new cares and new duties, and to bear sickness with what courage she may; and go their ways into the tangled paths of life, without a thought of the responsibilities they are shirking, or the solemn vows they have really broken.

LITTLE CORA;

OR, HOW MASONRY SAVED A FALLEN BROTHER.

BY MRS. FIDELIA W. GILLETTE.

Dear, darling Cora! unto what shall I liken her? Not to a sunbeam; for sometimes a sunbeam has its rays shrouded by clouds and darkness; but the light never went out of Cora's countenance. She was not like the lily; for her brow had tos dark a shade, to allow of the comparison. And I cannot call her a violet; for her dark eye had not the least touch of heaven's own azure. And yet, Cora's eyes were very beautiful; they had a rich, soul-like deepness, into which you might look, and look, and never feel that you had seen to the sweet depths of her spiritual nature.

I cannot compare my Cora to any of these beautiful gifts; but I can tell you many things that she was like. She had the sweetness of the June rose-bud--the delicacy of the lily of the valley-the modesty and faithfulness of the violet, and the sprightliness of the bright bubbles, that on the surface of the hill-side streams, dance gaily to the sea.

Bright, beautiful Cora! the pet of the household, the pride of the whole village. Not often does our world cradle in its arms so fair a vision of loveliness! Not often are human hearts gladdened by such a ray from the throne of the Fathar!

Dear, darling Cora! How my heart goes back, even now in the days of my womanhood, to

"The beautiful summers of long ago,"

when you and I, bright flower-gatherers beneath the mellow skies of childhood, climbed hand in hand over the rock-ribbed and tree-shaded hills that hemmed in our village-homes; or pulled wintergreens in the hollow, just behind the vine-covered parsonage, where good, old minister Brown and his silver-haired helpmeet were passing gently and happily down to their place of rest; or when we sat, side by side, on the low, pine benches, in the old, yellow schoolhouse, whose door was within a stone's throw of the broad blue creek, where the dark eyed queen of the Oneidas, paddled her light canoe, or plaited her hair by the light of the silver waters!

"She was a mad-cap of a child-that Cora." So said our very sedate and august teacher; but we never believed it-we scholars-not we, indeed! We liked no better fun, than for Cora to sit on her low seat-her lips wreathed in smiles-shaking her little head, and playing hide and seek through her dark curls; and such bursts of laughter, as came from our little hearts, when a bird drew down its shining wings, and perched upon the window-sill, or a mouse ran quickly across the floor-for the bird or the mouse always called forth an ejaculation of joy from Cora, as she sprang to the window sill, or bounded across the room, and made a scattering among the scholars, in her attempt to secure the mouse.

The morning of Cora's sixhth birth-day, we had been promised a strawberry ramble-provided Cora would "keep still" through the morning. The hours wore on, and as the noon approached, I was thinking, how quiet Cora had been, and what a charm a strawberry must have over her, when a mouse ran around the stove, and VOL. III.-NO. XI.-32.

with a shout from her red lips, she started in pursuit ; in an instant she was smoothing the soft, gray fur between her hands, and cried out, to me, "Oh see! I've got him! I've got him!" It was too much for our dignified teacher to put up with, and with a firin shake by her round, dimpled arm, she left her upon the seat, with, "Sit there little Miss!" Cora's lips pouted for a moment, and then parted into smiles, as though some bright thought had driven away the sudden anger. Toward noon, she put the thought in [practice; going behind the teacher's chair, when she was pronouncing words to one of the classes, she took hold of both her ears, and putting her teeth to the back of the neck, gave a bite and a pull, and ran out-of-doors, exclaiming, “I knew I'd bite her! I did!"

When the teacher reached the door in pursuit of the little "mischief," she was away in the direction of the strawberry meadows, singing "O, how red the berries grow."

All the long hours of the pleasant afternoon, we roved about the green meadows, sometimes gathering berries, and sometimes chasing the butterflies; and when we grew weary, we went down to the brook, that rippled among the grass, and making cups of our hands, slaked our thirst and lay down in the clover to rest. But Cora had no time to rest; as soon as she was nicely nestled in among the green grass, she forgot why she had laid down there, and was up and away, in pursuit of the butterflies--wondering "if they really would be as shining when she caught them? if she should rub the gold off their wings with her hands, when she held them ?" Then she would come back to me, and ask, if “butterflies could drink how did they live without water ?"

The beauty of a warm, summer day had faded into the rich beauty of a summer sunset, and the clouds lay, like purple and gold, against the western sky, as, with our baskets in our hands, and sun-bonnets, (that had been white and nicely ironed in the morning,) crowded into them, among the berries, we hurried by the school-house, and over the bridge, talking all the time as fast ar our lips could move, and I tried to make the fearless child believe that it would not be well with us, if we were out after dark. But she did not seem to understand me, for she sprung 'round the corner of the bridge-just as I was ready to run with all speed, and thought she was ready to do the same-and seated herself where the bank of the stream was not so high, and the water went over the white stones with a peculiarly musical ripple, that would have eharmed me into serene bliss, if I had not been such a little coward; but as I said, Cora did not seem to understand the wisdom of my arguments, even though I was a few years older; she looked up into my face with her happy smiles, and asked, “What if it is dark? I don't care for the night. The fingers of the dark can't touch us; for I've tried to feel them, when I've put my hands out, to get hold of the people that talk to me all night, and I never could. Don't people ever talk to you, in the dark! can't you hear them sing, and don't you wake up every morning, feeling as though the angels had stayed all night with you?" I was too much afraid, to wait long enough to tell her any of my experiences, and I answered, “I do'nt know; let's hurry, now." But she looked up again, so provokingly quiet, and said, "Well, then, that's what makes you afraid of the dark, I can't go now."

The sun sank lower and lower, behind the hills, and only faint, broken rays of hight crept across the creek-waves, and kissed the feet of the happy child, as she raised them from the water; then she shook back her curls, and beat over to caress the

dimples around her white toes, when one red shoe fell out of her lap, and went gliding away upon the waves; she looked at it a moment, and then sent the other after it, with, "you need'n't go alone, pretty shoe."

We had gathered up our baskets, and Cora was looking rather woe-begone, as she saw her soiled pantalets, and her bare feet, and thought of her new red shoes away upon the water; when a strong pair of arms suddenly encircled her, and manly lips pressed her red cheek, and a voice full of melody, said, “And you are not afraid of the dark, little friend?" She made no answer, but struggled to free herself, until her dark, earnest eyes met the dark, earnest ones of her captor, and then she broke out with her old, joyous laugh, and answered, "O, no, the dark never hurt me; are you afraid of it ?"

I suppose they knew each other at once; for they loved each other very firmly, ever after, and Cora used to take him up to see Lizzie Brown, and tell him how good Lizzie was; and she entirely forsook her school, to sit on the bare floor in his study, and look at the pictures that he made of her beautiful sights and scenes. That night on the creek bank, after he had released Cora from his arms, he held a piece of stiff paper before our eyes, and asked us if we could see well enough to make out what it was? There was just light enough to see a stream of water, a little, laughing, curlyheaded girl upon its bank, with her shoes gliding off upon the waves. Cora clapped ber hands, and asked, "Are those little things for the little girl's feet ?" and when he told her, she laughed again, and exclaimed, “O, ain't they funny feet!" He asked for her name, and when she had given it, he said, "Well that is a sketch, and will be a picture of little Cora Lee."

Mrs. Lee stood in the door, watching for her darling, as we reached Cora's home, and the small pine table was set with its white bowls, and shining spoons, and a pan of new, warm milk, and loaves of fresh, white bread. The twin sisters, Kate and Carrie, were seated in their high chairs, and Master Eddie was ready to do the honors of the table. Cora told her mother how she had lost her shoes, and torn her pantalets, but she had brought home all the berries. She nearly smothered the baby with kisses, and after supper, she sat upcn her father's knee, and told him about the strange man, and the picture, and how she asked him to come and show the picture to mama and baby, and all "and now, papa," she said, "you must hush me to sleep, so I can wake up early, and go with you to see the man and the pictnre about me."

I have said that supper was waiting, and that Master Eddie was in his place, to do the honors of the table; as soon as Cora saw this, she ran to her mother, and whispered, "Is papa sick again?"

"Yes, dear," answered mama, pointing over to a rude, home-made, but neatly covered lounge. The child looked a moment upon the red, bloated face against the pillow, and then turning again to her mother, exclaimed, "Oh, mama! send for Mr. Dean."

"Mr. Dean came home with him, and will be in again this evening. Papa is not very bad, and when he wakes up, if he is not any worse, I think we can take care of bim."

"Mama, what should we do, only for good Mr. Dean ?"

"Sometimes I think we could not do at all, my little dear; but we must not

tronble so good a man, any more than we can help."

“No, mama: mama,” (and little Cora crept closer to her poor, trembling mother,