rl, and now I could do no
more, could never know all about her, never see the sunny face again, or
win another word from lips that seemed made for smiling.

Only a little school-girl, yet how many friends she seemed to have,
making them unconsciously by her gentle manners, generous actions, and
innocent light-heartedness. I could not bear to think what home must be
without her, for I am sure I was right in believing her a good, sweet
child, because real character shows itself in little things, and the
heart that always keeps in tune makes its music heard everywhere.

The busy man of the horse-car found time to miss her, the schoolmates
evidently mourned their queen, for when I met them they walked quietly,
talked low, and several wore black bows upon the sleeve; while I,
although I never knew her name, or learned a single fact about her, felt
the sweetness of her happy nature, and have not yet forgotten my little
school-girl.

X.

WHAT A SHOVEL DID.

As my friend stood by the window, watching the "soft falling snow," I
saw him smile,--a thoughtful yet a very happy smile, and, anxious to
know what brought it, I asked,--

"What do you see out there?"

"Myself," was the answer that made me stare in surprise, as I joined him
and looked curiously into the street.

All I saw was a man shovelling snow; and, thoroughly puzzled, I turned
to Richard, demanding an explanation. He laughed, and answered
readily,--

"While we wait for Kate and the children, I'll tell you a little
adventure of mine. It may be useful to you some day.

"Fifteen years ago, on a Sunday morning like this, I stood at the window
of a fireless, shabby little room, without one cent in my pocket, and
no prospect of getting one.

"I had gone supperless to bed, and spent the long night asking, 'What
shall I do?' and, receiving no reply but that which is so hard for eager
youth to accept, 'Wait and trust.'

"I was alone in the world, with no fortune but my own talent, and even
that I was beginning to doubt, because it brought no money. For a year I
had worked and hoped, with a brave spirit; had written my life into
poems and tales; tried a play; turned critic and reviewed books; offered
my pen and time to any one who would employ them, and now was ready for
the hardest literary work, and the poorest pay, for starvation stared me
in the face.

"All my ventures failed, and my paper boats freighted with so many high
hopes, went down one afte