r brother? He could not be found, and not one word had she
heard of him since she sent that dreadful letter. He might be dead. Oh,
how often she thought that! Now she wrung her hands and covered her wet
cheeks with them. Her hair fell about her shoulders, as she shook in her
agony of remorse.

* * * * *

What noise is this? the door-bell pealing through the silent house.
Again and again it rings.

She did not hear this bell. She was listening to another, and how it
rang! Louder and louder, how it rang, and well it might, with a calf
jumping about, trying to get away from it. Even in all her misery--so
near together are the ecstasies of emotion--she laughed aloud and then
shuddered at the thought that she should never again hear any noise
quite so loud as this of the past.

Then she felt in the silent, chill room a tattered presence, a little
half-frozen hand upon her own. She turned her streaming eyes, and they
were met by the big, wide eyes of Elsie.

"Miss Amanda, didn't you hear the door-bell ringing? There is
something--no, there is somebody--waiting down-stairs for you."

Half dazed, half afraid, ashamed of her tears, Miss Amanda left the
room, led by the child as by an unearthly presence into an unearthly
presence.

Who was this bearded man that folded her in his strong, true arms?

* * * * *

"I have so much to tell you, dear child. I am such a happy little girl.
Miss Amanda's dear brother has come home. She is so happy, and she loves
him so much. And, oh darling, they both love me! And it was all you!
You did it all! Oh, there is no knowing how much good one sweet, loving,
contented potato-child can do in a house."

A Story That Never Ends

Tommy was very angry. He rushed up-stairs and into his mother's room,
utterly forgetting his knock or "Am I welcome, mother?"

"Bang!" echoed the door behind him with a noise that resounded over the
whole house. Why he was angry was plain enough. His eye was black, nose
bleeding, coat torn, collar hanging. His mother took it off as he bent
over the wash-bowl.

"Oh, Tommy," she said, "you've been fighting again."

"Well, mother," he exclaimed, "what do you expect me to do? That Bob
Sykes threw rocks at me again and called me names. He said I was--"

"Hush," said his mother, "you only grow more angry as you speak. Is it
hard for you now to remember the rule, 'The good things about others,
the naughty things about yourself''?"

"Good! There is noth