he had seen.

Busied with friends, Miss Celia could not help wondering how the lads got
on, and, when the tea-bell rang, waited a little anxiously for their
return, knowing that she could tell at a glance if they had enjoyed
themselves.

"All goes well so far," she thought, as she watched their approach with a
smile, for Sancho sat bolt upright in the chair which Ben pushed, while
Thorny strolled beside him leaning on a stout cane newly cut. Both boys
were talking busily, and Thorny laughed from time to time, as if his
comrade's chat was very amusing.

"See what a jolly cane Ben cut for me. He's great fun if you don't stroke
him the wrong way," said the elder lad, flourishing his staff as they came
up.

"What have you been doing down there? You look so merry, I suspect
mischief," asked Miss Celia, surveying them from the steps.

"We've been as good as gold. I talked, and Ben learned a hymn to please
you. Come, young man, say your piece," said Thorny, with an expression of
virtuous content.

Taking off his hat, Ben soberly obeyed, much enjoying the quick color that
came up in Miss Celia's face as she listened, and feeling as if well
repaid for the labor of learning by the pleased look with which she said,
as he ended with a bow:

"I feel very proud to think you chose that, and to hear you say it as if
it meant something to you. I was only thirteen when I wrote it, but it
came right out of my heart, and did me good. I hope it may help you a
little."

Ben murmured that he guessed it would, but felt too shy to talk about such
things before Thorny, so hastily retired to put the chair away, and the
others went in to tea. But later in the evening, when Miss Celia was
singing like a nightingale, the boy slipped away from sleepy Bab and Betty
to stand by the syringa-bush and listen, with his heart full of new
thoughts and happy feelings, for never before had he spent a Sunday like
this. And when he went to bed, instead of saying "Now I lay me," he
repeated the third verse of Miss Celia's hymn, for that was his favorite,
because his longing for the father whom he had seen made it seem sweet and
natural now to love and lean, without fear, upon the Father whom he had
not seen.

(_To be continued_.)

THE SWALLOW.

BY NATHAN HASKELL DOLE.

[Illustration]

Of all the birds that swim the air
I'd rather be the swallow;
And, summer days, when days were fair,
I'd follow, follow, follow