boy shook his, triumphantly.

"And mine, too," said Grace, nothing doubting, having been busy all the
time in pulling off her little stockings.

"Here," she said to the man who was packing the things into a
wide-mouthed sack; "here's mine," and her large blue eyes looked
earnestly through her tears.

Aunt Hitty flew at her. "Good land! the child's crazy. Don't think the
men could wear your stockings--take 'em away!"

Grace looked around with an air of utter desolation, and began to cry.
"I wanted to give them something," said she. "I'd rather go barefoot on
the snow all day than not send 'em any thing."

"Give me the stockings, my child," said the old soldier, tenderly.
"There, I'll take 'em, and show 'em to the soldiers, and tell them what
the little girl said that sent them. And it will do them as much good as
if they could wear them. They've got little girls at home, too." Grace
fell on her mother's bosom completely happy, and Aunt Hitty only
muttered,--

"Every body does spile that child; and no wonder, neither!"

Soon the old sleigh drove off from the brown house, tightly packed and
heavily loaded. And Grace and Dick were creeping up to their little
beds.

"There's been something put on the altar of Liberty to-night, hasn't
there, Dick?"

"Yes, indeed," said Dick; and, looking up to his mother, he said, "But,
mother, what did you give?"

"I?" said the mother, musingly.

"Yes, you, mother; what have you given to the country?"

"All that I have, dears," said she, laying her hands gently on their
heads--"my husband and my children!"

II. THE ALTAR OF ----, OR 1850.

The setting sun of chill December lighted up the solitary front window
of a small tenement on ---- Street, in Boston, which we now have
occasion to visit. As we push gently aside the open door, we gain sight
of a small room, clean as busy hands can make it, where a neat, cheerful
young mulatto woman is busy at an ironing table. A basket full of
glossy-bosomed shirts, and faultless collars and wristbands, is beside
her, into which she is placing the last few items with evident pride and
satisfaction. A bright black-eyed boy, just come in from school, with
his satchel of books over his shoulder, stands, cap in hand, relating to
his mother how he has been at the head of his class, and showing his
school tickets, which his mother, with untiring admiration, deposits in
the little real china tea pot--which, as being their most reliable
artic