ind one lying before it, ready to be
carried through it to his mother! then, indeed, it would be beautiful to
me. Oh Tiny! oh my child, when wilt thou return from thy long
wanderings?"

"Please, sir," said a child's voice--it was the voice of our little
Grace, you know--"please, sir, will you come and help me?" and she ran
back to the place where Tiny lay.

Swiftly as a bird on wing went Josiah with the child. Without a word he
lifted up the senseless Poet and the Broken Harp; and with the precious
burden passed on through the Beautiful Gate of the Forest, into the
Cottage Home--Grace following him!

Once more the Broken Harp hung on the kitchen wall--no longer broken.
Once more the swallows and the poet slept side by side, in their
comfortable nests. Once more old Kitty's eyes grew bright. Once more
Josiah smiled. Again a singing voice went echoing through the world,
working miracles of good. Rich men heard it and opened their purses.
Proud men heard it and grew humble. Angry voices heard it and grew
soft. Wicked spirits heard it and grew beautiful in charities. The
sick, and sad, and desolate heard it and were at peace. Mourners heard
it and rejoiced. The songs that voice sang, echoed through the
churches, through the streets; and by ten thousand thousand firesides
they were sung again and yet again. But all the while the great heart,
the mighty, loving human heart from which they came, was nestled in that
little nest of home on the border of the forest, far away from all the
world's temptations, in the safe shelter of a household's love.

STORY FOUR, CHAPTER 1.

THE CHIMAERA, BY N. HAWTHORNE.

Once in the old, old times (for all the strange things which I tell you
about happened long before anybody can remember), a fountain gushed out
of a hill-side in the marvellous land of Greece; and, for aught I know,
after so many thousand years, it is still gushing out of the very
self-same spot. At any rate, there was the pleasant fountain welling
freshly forth and sparkling adown the hillside, in the golden sunset,
when a handsome young man named Bellerophon drew near its margin. In
his hand he held a bridle, studded with brilliant gems, and adorned with
a golden bit. Seeing an old man, and another of middle age, and a
little boy, near the fountain, and like wise a maiden, who was dipping
up some of the water in a pitcher, he paused, and begged that he might
refresh himself with a draught.

"This i