of his eyes. On meeting Ben's gaze he broke down
thoroughly and burst into a flood of tears, throwing his arms round
the honest boat-builder's neck, sobbing on his breast.

"Oh, Ben, I don't want to leave mother; I am a wicked boy. If she were
to die, Ben, what should I do? Do you think she is alive now, Ben? I
don't want to go away, Ben."

The boat-builder soothed the little lad and smiled at the success of
his purpose to divert the boy's mind.

It was now nearly night, and time for Archie to go home, so Ben took
him on his shoulders and carried him to Mr. Archer's house, where the
family were all waiting supper for the little boy.

Archie ran to his mother as soon as he got in and kissed her over and
over again. He told her his little story, making the good woman's
heart overflow with love for her little son.

Ben stayed to supper with the family that night, and all was bright
and happy as the merry party sat round the board laughing and joking
to their heart's content.

* * * * *

Archie is a young man now, and has outgrown his gloomy, brooding
disposition. He is a clerk in the office of a rich corn merchant in
Oxbridge, the nearest market to Wynne, and shows every tendency to
become a successful and respected business man.

Occasionally, when things do not happen to his satisfaction, and he
feels the old spirit of discontent rising, he checks it by reflecting
on his early unhappiness. If his mother or father are harsh or angry
with him, or if Mr. Gayton, his employer, speaks quickly or loudly to
him, he stifles any tendency to sulk and become angry by thinking of
Ben Huntly and the story of the wreck.

A WISH FOR WINGS.

O dear little birdie, how nice it must be
To be able to fly
Far away to the sky,
Or to sit on the toss-away top of a tree.

I wish you would lend me your wings for a day.
I have two little feet
That can run on the street,
One step at a time, but I can't fly away.

I would fly to the woods if I only had wings;
Over house-top and tree,
Like a bird or a bee,
And sit by the side of the thrush while she sings.

I would count the blue eggs in her snug little nest;
I would stay all day long,
To hear her sweet song,
And bring home a feather of gold from her breast.

MRS. S. J. BRIGHAM.

CONSEQUENCES: A PAR