nd with exultation in
his father's talents and distinction, as he read. The sleet rattled a
pleasant accompaniment against the window-shutters; and the organ-pipes
of the wind sounded a solemn symphony. This last night of November was
genial and bright to those worthy people, in their little family-circle.
And the future was full of promise. And the rhetoric of the orator
settled the duty of man to man so satisfactorily, and painted the
pleasures of benevolence in such colors, that all their bosoms glowed.

"It is gratifying to think," said Mrs. Gingerford, wiping her eyes at
the pathetic close, "how much good the printing of that address in the
'Gazette' must accomplish. It will reach many so who hadn't the
good-fortune to hear it at the rooms."

Certainly, Madam. The "Gazette" is taken, and perhaps read this very
evening, in every one of the houses at which the pauper has applied in
vain for shelter, since you frowned him from your door. Those exalted
sentiments, breathed in musical periods, are no doubt a rich legacy to
the society of Timberville, and to the world. It was wise to print them;
they will "reach many so." But will they reach this outcast beggar-boy,
and benefit him? Alas, it is fast growing too late for that!

Utter fatigue and discouragement have overtaken him. The former notion
of dying in the fields recurs to him now; and wretched indeed must he
be, since even that desperate thought has a sort of comfort in it. But
he is too weary to seek out some suitably retired spot to take cold
leave of life in. On every side is darkness; on every side, wild storm.
Why endeavor to drag farther his benumbed limbs? As well stretch himself
here, upon this wet wintry sod, as anywhere. He has the presumption to
do it,--never considering how deeply he may injure a fine gentleman's
feelings by dying at his door.

Tiger does not bark him away, but only dreams of barking, in his cozy
kennel. Close by are the windows of the mansion, glowing with light.
There beat the philanthropic hearts; there smiles the pale, pensive
lady; there beams the aspiring face of her son; and there sits the
Judge, with his feet on the rug, pleasantly contemplating the good his
speech will do, and thinking quite as much, perhaps, of the fame it will
bring him,--happily unconscious alike of his neighbor's malicious jest,
and of the real victim of that jest, lying out there in the tempest and
freezing rain.

So November goes out; and winter, bo