ou who mistake, Mr. Bangs. But I am going now. I said I would
stop but a moment. I have kept my promise, as you will see by your
clock."

Before his hands fell listless from the arms of the chair--before his
lips parted, but not for speech--ay, just before that quick, strong
pain in his heart, Mr. Bixby saw on the white dial the black hands yet
pointing to the seven hours and the twenty-nine minutes, the pendulum
moveless, still, half-way on the upward journey of the arc.

The elderly gentleman arose, walked round the table, and smiled,
himself, as he saw a smile of perfected happiness on the face of the
dead, when so lately sorrow itself had been pictured on the face of
the living.

"It was hard to deceive him, but he will thank me now," said he of the
gray locks and wrinkled visage. "And here are the letters which he
does not need."

Had the old man no more appointments to keep? For he took up one of
the letters and opened it. A lock of golden hair fell unnoticed to the
floor. Then he read silently, and, after a while, aloud:

"I hope you will come and see me on Christmas-eve, for I am
not well. I long for you more than I can say. You must be
tired with your struggle in the great city, and need rest. O
Harry! come and comfort her that loves you, as you well
know.

"MARGARET."

The bells of Trinity commenced ringing.

"He was tired, and he needed rest," said Death.

ELI.

BY C. H. WHITE.

_Century Magazine, November, 1881._

I.

Under a boat, high and dry, at low tide, on the beach, John Wood was
seated in the sand, sheltered from the sun in the boat's shadow,
absorbed in the laying on of verdigris. The dull, worn color was
rapidly giving place to a brilliant, shining green. Occasionally a
scraper, which lay by, was taken up to remove the last trace of a
barnacle.

It was Wood's boat, but he was not a boatman; he painted cleverly, but
he was not a painter. He kept the brown store under the elms of the
main street, now hot and still, where at this moment his blushing
sister was captivating the heart of an awkward farmer's boy, as she
sold him a pair of striped suspenders.

As the church-clock struck the last of twelve decided blows, three
children came rushing out of the house on the bank above the beach. It
was one of those deceptive New England cottages, weather-worn without,
but bright and bountifully home-like wi