e doctor. "It is the last change," he
said; "she will probably pass away before the daybreak."

Heavier and deeper grew that sleep, and to the eye of the anxious
watchers the little face grew paler and paler; yet by degrees the
breathing became regular and easy, and a gentle moisture began to
diffuse itself over the whole surface. A new hope began to dawn on the
minds of the parents, as they pointed out these symptoms to the doctor.

"All things are possible with God," said he, in answer to the inquiring
looks he met, "and it may be that she will yet live."

An hour more passed, and the rosy glow of the New Year's morning began
to blush over the snowy whiteness of the landscape. Far off from the
window could be seen the kindling glow of a glorious sunrise, looking
all the brighter for the dark pines that half veiled it from view; and
now a straight and glittering beam shot from the east into the still
chamber. It fell on the golden hair and pale brow of the child, lighting
it up as if an angel had smiled on it; and slowly the large blue eyes
unclosed, and gazed dreamily around.

"Ally, Ally," said the father, bending over her, trembling with
excitement.

"You are going to have a New 'Ear's pesent," whispered the little one,
faintly smiling.

"I believe from my heart that you are, sir!" said the doctor, who stood
with his fingers on her pulse; "she has passed through the crisis of the
disease, and we may hope."

A few hours turned this hope to glad certainty; for with the elastic
rapidity of infant life, the signs of returning vigor began to multiply,
and ere evening the little one was lying in her father's arms, answering
with languid smiles to the overflowing proofs of tenderness which every
member of the family was showering upon her.

"See, my children," said the father gently, "_this dear one_ is _our_
New Year's present. What can we render to God in return?"

THE OLD OAK OF ANDOVER.

A REVERY.

Silently, with dreamy languor, the fleecy snow is falling. Through the
windows, flowery with blossoming geranium and heliotrope, through the
downward sweep of crimson and muslin curtain, one watches it as the wind
whirls and sways it in swift eddies.

Right opposite our house, on our Mount Clear, is an old oak, the apostle
of the primeval forest. Once, when this place was all wildwood, the man
who was seeking a spot for the location of the buildings of Phillips
Academy climbed this oak, using it as a s