found him with an open drawer before him. The drawer, in fact, was that in which he kept his money; which money (strange employment for him to be caught in) he was counting and recounting over and over. The treasure was made up of pieces but small in value-shillings, sixpences, pence, and halfpence. He sighed as he gathered the tiny heap in his hand; and then, shuffling it into the farther division of the drawer, he shut it and looked up with

"And what do you come for, my little girl ?"

She had the hat in her hand.

"Papa, I am come to talk to you about your hat."

"Well, child! But you haven't brushed it, Lucy. You are a little sloven. I thought you would have made it quite spruce by this time."

"Mrs. Alworthy says it is not brushable."

"Nonsense of Mrs. Alworthy. It looks bad, to be sure," said he regarding it with a queer sort of smile; "and how it is to last me six months longer may be a question to be asked, but it must do for the present, my love."

"Oh, papa! but Mrs. Alworthy, and Philip, and everybody, say it is so shabby."

"I am sorry for that."

Philip says he should be quite ashamed to walk out with such a hat."

"Does he? And does Mrs. Alworthy?"

"No, she never said so; but Philip does, over and over." "And are you ashamed, Lucy?"

Why-why, no; but "—and the colour rose to her olive cheek "I wish you would buy a new hat. Do, dear papa, do.”

"But if I have no money to buy one?"

"Why, papa, but you have some money. You were counting a great big heap of money, as big as this, when I came into the room."

"But suppose I want the money for other things?"

"Oh! but what other things? Nothing shows a gentleman so much as a hat. Philip says

"What does Philip say?"

"He says-oh, papa! it's so shocking!—that people call you stingy, and think you mean and a miser, for nobody else would dress so unlike a gentleman. That's what he says, papa, and it makes me almost cry to hear him."

"Come here, my little Lucy (for you look ready at all events to cry now), and sit down upon your father's knee, and let us talk about it. Does my child say that everybody cries shame upon her father because he does not get himself a new hat? And do they call it mean and miserly? Was that it? What is mean and

miserly, little woman? Do you know what those terms signify?" "Something very horrid, I am sure; and what everybody hates and what you are not, I am certain, papa, for everybody loves you."

"That's very good of everybody, I am sure, when a man wears a shabby hat. I did not think there had been so much goodness in the world. So it's mean and miserly in me, is it, Lucy?" "So they say, and I cannot bear to hear it. get a new hat."

Do, pray, papa,

"A mean person," Mr. Lovel went on, bending his serious eyes upon his daughter's face, "is one who spares his money by taking advantages of others; who endeavours to obtain services unrecompensed, and to discharge duties-the duties of hospitality, liberality, and generosity-by halves, in order to save the appearance and spare the cost. Dost thou understand me daughter?" "Yes, papa, I do."

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"A miser is one," Mr. Lovel continued, "who hoards his money for no purpose but to gratify the base desire of mere possessionthe sin of covetousness. Now, Lucy, though it does not become a

man to speak up for himself, this once I must do it. I am not mean, for the money I save is not intended to be hoarded. Child, we are very poor people, you and I, and it is difficult for the poor to walk uprightly, and honourably, and liberally, and generously; and it is most especially difficult to avoid false shame. But, my dear, we must be all these things, and we must defy false shame, if we would acquit ourselves to God and to our own consciences. You understand me, I see you do," he went on; for the expressive eyes of the little girl showed that she did. "And now I will tell

you why I have not had a new hat. There is a man in this city who has fallen into great poverty, by no fault of his own, and his children are crying for bread. He is not a beggar; he cannot take refuge in the workhouse with his children; he would rather lie down and die than do that. He once, when my father was in difficulties, gave him money: I must now give him money. What I have he shall have. It would cost me a guinea to buy a new hat I choose to give it to this man to buy bread for his children, Lucy, and I will wear a shabby hat, call me mean and miserly who may. Shall you be ashamed to walk with me now, Lucy?"

She made no answer; she still held the hat. Presently she began to press it to her bosom and to cover it with kisses-with tears. She slid down from her father's knee, carrying the hat with her. Oh! how she and Mrs. Alworthy brushed and smoothed, and did the impossible to improve its appearance! And they so succeeded that when Mr. Lovel put it upon his benevolent head he declared that he did not know his own hat again!

Nearer and nearer the barque is borne,

As over the deck they dash.

Where sailors five are clinging fast

To the sail-less stump of the broken mast,
Waiting the final crash.

Is it all too late? Is there succour yet
Those perishing men to reach ?
Life is so near on the firm-built pier,
That else must be death to each.

There are daring hearts, and powerful arms,
And swift and steady feet,

And they rush as down to a yawning grave,
Treading that awful path to save,

As they trod a homeward street.

Over the boulders and foam they rush

Into the ghastly hollow;

They fling the rope to the heaving wreck;

The aim was sure, and it strikes the deck,
As the shouts of quick hope follow.

Reached, but not saved !-there is more to do.
A trumpet note is heard;

And over the rage and over the roar
Of billowy thunders on the shore

Rings out the guiding word.

There is one chance, and only one.