would again disturb him.

As for Fessenden's--How shall we name him? Somehow, it goes against the
grain to call any person a fool. Though we may forget the Scriptural
warning, still charity remembers that he is our brother. Suppose,
therefore, we stop at the possessive case, and call him simply
Fessenden's?

As for Fessenden's, then, he was less fortunate than the Judge's
mastiff. He had no dry straw, not even a kennel to crouch in. And the
fields were uninviting; and to die was not so pleasant. The veriest
wretch alive feels a yearning for life, and few are so foolish as not to
prefer a dry skin to a wet one. Even Fessenden's knew enough to go in
when it rained,--if he only could. So, with the dismallest prospect
before him, he kept on, in the wind and rain of that bitter November
night.

And now the wind was rising to a tempest; and the rain was turning to
sleet; and November was fast becoming December. For this was the last
day of the month,--the close of the last day of autumn, as we divide the
seasons: autumn was flying in battle before the fierce onset of winter.
It was the close of the week also, being Saturday.

Saturday night! what a sentiment of thankfulness and repose is in the
word! Comfort is in it; and peace exhales from it like an aroma. Your
work is ended; it is the hour of rest; the sense of duty done sweetens
reflection, and weariness subsides into soothing content. Once more the
heart grows tenderly appreciative of the commonest blessings. That you
have a roof to shelter you, and a pillow for your head, and love and
light and supper, and something in store for Sunday,--that the raving
rain is excluded, and the wolfish wind howls in vain,--that those
dearest to you are gathered about your hearth, and all is well,--it is
enough; the full soul asks no wore.

But this particular Saturday evening brought no such suffusion of bliss
to Fessenden's,--if, indeed, any ever did. He saw, through the
streaming, misty air, the happy homes in the village lighted up one by
one as it grew dark. He had glimpses, through warm windows, of white
supper-tables. The storm made sufficient seclusion; there was no need to
draw the curtains. Servants were bringing in the tea-things. Children
were playing about the floors,--laughing, beautiful children. Behold
them, shivering beggar-boy! Lean by the iron rail, wait patiently in the
rain, and look in upon them; it is worth your while. How frolicsome and
light-hearted they