and singing his new songs; for he has learnt music and is one of the best singers at the Orphéon. A dream, sir, truly! Directly the bird was fledged he took to flight, and remembers neither father nor mother. Yesterday, for instance, was the day we expected him; he should have come to supper with us. No Robert to-day, either. He has had some plan to finish or some bargain to arrange, and his old parents are put down last in the accounts, after the customers and the joiner's work. Ah! if I could have guessed how it would have turned out! Fool! to have sacrificed my likings and my money for nearly twenty years to the education of a thankless son! Was it for this I took the trouble to cure myself of drinking, to break with my friends, to become an example to the neighborhood? The jovial good fellow has made a goose of himself. Oh, if I had to begin again! No, no! You see, women and children are our bane. They soften our hearts; they lead us a life of hope and affection; we pass a quarter of our lives in fostering the growth of a grain of corn which is to be everything to us in our old age; and when the harvest-time comes-good-night! The ear is empty."

While he was speaking Michael's voice became hoarse, his eye fierce and his lips quivered. I wished to answer him, but I could only think of commonplace consolations, and I remained silent. The joiner pretended he wanted a tool, and left me.

Poor father! Ah! Iknow those moments of temptation when Virtue has failed to reward us and we regret having obeyed her. Who has not felt this weakness in hours of trial, and who has not uttered at least once the mournful exclamation of "Brutus"?

But if virtue is only a word, what is there, then, in life which is true and real? No, I will not believe that goodness is in vain. It does not always give the happiness we had hoped for, but it brings some other. In the world everything is ruled by order and has its proper and necessary consequences, and virtue cannot be the sole exception to the general law. If it had been prejudicial to those who practise it, experience would have avenged them; but experience has, on the contrary, made it more universal and more. holy. We only accuse it of being a faithless debtor because we demand an immediate payment and the one apparent to our senses. We always consider life as a fairy-tale in which every good action must be rewarded by a visible wonder. We do not accept as payment a peaceful conscience, self-content or a good name among men-treasures that are more precious than any other, but the value of which we do not feel till after we have lost them.

Michael is come back and returned to his work. His son has not yet arrived. By telling me of his hopes and his grievous. disappointments he became excited; he unceasingly went over again the same subject, always adding something to his griefs. He has just wound up his confidential discourse. by speaking to me of a joiner's business which he had hoped to buy and work to good account with Robert's help. The present owner had made a fortune by it, and after thirty years of business he was thinking of retiring to one of the ornamental cottages in the outskirts of the city—a usual retreat for the frugal and successful workingman. Michael had not, indeed, the two thousand francs which must be paid down, but

perhaps he could have persuaded Master Benoit to wait. Robert's presence would have been a security for him, for the young man could not fail to ensure the prosperity of a workshop; besides science and skill, he had the power of invention and bringing to perfection. His father had discovered among his drawings a new plan for a staircase which had occupied his thoughts for a long time, and he even suspected him of having engaged himself to the Versailles contractor for the very purpose of executing it. The youth was tormented by this spirit of invention, which took possession of all his thoughts, and while devoting his mind to study he had no time to listen to his feelings.

Michael told me all this with a mixed feeling of pride and vexation. I saw he was proud of the son he was abusing, and that his very pride made him more sensible of that son's neglect.

Six o'clock, P. M.—I have just finished a happy day. How many events have happened within a few hours, and what a change for Genevieve and Michael! He had just finished fixing the shelves and telling me of his son, whilst I laid the cloth for my breakfast. Suddenly we heard hurried steps in the passage; the door opened, and Genevieve entered with Robert. The joiner gave a start of joyful surprise, but he repressed it immediately, as if he wished to keep up the appearance of displeasure. The young man did not appear to notice it, but threw himself into his arms in an open-hearted manner which surprised me. Genevieve, whose face shone with happiness, seemed to wish to speak, and to restrain herself with difficulty.

I told Robert I was glad to see him, and he answered me with ease and civility.

The joiner looked at his son sideways, and then took up his hammer again.

"It is right," muttered he, in a grumbling tone; "when we are with other people, we must do as they wish, but there are some who would like better to eat brown bread with their own knife than partridges with the silver fork of a master."

"And I am one of those, father," replied. Robert, merrily; "but, as the proverb says, you must shell the peas before you can eat them. It was necessary that I should first work in a great workshop-"

"To go on with your plan of the staircase," interrupted Michael, ironically. "You must now say M. Raymond's plan, father," replied Robert, smiling. "Why?"

"Because I have sold it to him."

The joiner, who was planing a board, turned round quickly.

"Sold it!" cried he, with sparkling eyes. "For the reason that I was not rich enough to give it him."

Michael threw down the board and tool.

"There he is again !" resumed he, angrily. "His good genius puts an idea into his head which would have made him known, and he goes and sells it to a rich man who will take the honor of it himself."

it—you are a woman; but he he knows well that a true workman never gives up his own inventions for money, no more than a soldier would give up his cross. That is his glory; he is bound to keep it for the honor it does him. Ah, thunder! if I had ever made a discovery, rather than put it up at auction I would have sold one of my eyes. Don't you see that a new invention is like a child to a workman? He takes care of it, he brings it up, he makes a way for it in the world, and it is only poor creatures who sell it."

Yes, and you will thank him for it," added Genevieve, who could no longer keep silence.

"Never!" replied Michael.

'But, wretched man," cried she, "he only sold it for our sakes."

The joiner looked at his wife and son with astonishment. It was necessary to come to an explanation. The latter related how he had entered into a negotiation with Master Benoit, who had positively refused to sell his business unless one-half of the two thousand francs was first paid down. It was in the hopes of obtaining this sum that he had gone to work with the contractor at Versailles; he had had an opportunity of trying his invention and of finding a purchaser. Thanks to the money he received for it, he had just concluded the bargain with Benoit, and had brought his father the key of the new work-yard.

This explanation was given by the young workman with so much modesty and sim

Genevieve cried; Michael pressed his son to his heart, and in a long embrace he seemed to ask his pardon for having unjustly accused him.

All was now explained with honor to Robert. The conduct which his parents had ascribed to indifference really sprang from affection; he had neither obeyed the voice of ambition nor of avarice, nor even the nobler inspiration of inventive genius: his whole motive and single aim had been the happiness of Genevieve and Michael. The day for proving his gratitude had come, and he had returned them sacrifice for sacrifice.

After the explanations and exclamations of joy were over, all three were about to leave me; but, the cloth being laid, I added three more places and kept them to breakfast.

The meal was prolonged; the fare was only tolerable, but the overflowings of affection made it delicious. Never had I better understood the unspeakable charm of family love. What calm enjoyment in that happiness which is always shared with others, in that community of interests which unites such various feelings, in that association of existences which forms one single being of so many! What is man without those home affections which like so many roots fix him firmly in the earth and permit him to imbibe all the juices of life? Energy, happiness-does it not all come from them? Without family life where would man learn to love, to associate, to deny himself? A community in little, is it not it which teaches us how to live in the great one? Such is the holiness of

home that to express our relation with God we have been obliged to borrow the words invented for our family life. Men have named themselves the sons of a heavenly Father.

Ah! let us carefully preserve these chains of domestic union. Do not let us unbind the human sheaf and scatter its ears to all the caprices of chance and of the winds, but let us rather enlarge this holy law; let us carry the principles and the habits of home beyond its bounds; and if it may be, let us realize the prayer of the apostle of the Gentiles when he exclaimed to the new-born children of Christ, "Be ye like-minded, having the same love, being of one accord, of one mind."

THE

Translation ANONYMOUS.

A STREET-MUSICIAN.

HE other day, as I came down Broome street, I saw a street-musician playing near the door of a genteel dwelling. The organ was uncommonly sweet and mellow in its tones, the tunes were slow and plaintive, and I fancied that I saw in the woman's Italian face an expression that indicated sufficient refinement to prefer the tender and the melancholy to the lively "trainer tunes" in vogue with the populace. She looked like one who had suffered much, and the sorrowful music seemed her own appropriate voice. A little girl clung to her scanty garments, as if afraid of all things but her mother. As I looked at them a young lady of pleasing countenance opened the window and began to sing like a bird, in keeping with the street-organ. Two other young girls came and leaned on her shoulder, and still she sang on. Blessings on her gentle heart!

It was evidently the spontaneous gush of human love and sympathy.

The beauty of the incident attracted attention. A group of gentlemen gradually collected round the organist, and ever, as the tune ended, they bowed respectfully toward the window, waved their hats and called out, "More, if you please!" One, whom I knew well for the kindest and truest soul, passed round his hat; hearts were kindled, and the silver fell in freely. In a minute four or five dollars were collected for the poor woman. She spoke no word of gratitude, but she gave such a look!

"Will you go to the next street and play to a friend of mine?" said my kind-hearted friend.

She answered in tones expressing the deepest emotion,

"No, sir. God bless you all! God bless you all!" making a courtesy to the young lady, who had stepped back and stood sheltered by the curtain of the window. “I will play no more to-day; I will go home now."

The tears trickled down her cheeks, and as she walked away she ever and anon wiped her eyes with the corner of her shawl.

The group of gentlemen lingered a moment to look after her; then, turning toward the now-closed window, they gave three enthusiastic cheers, and departed better than they came. The pavement on which they stood had been a church to them, and for the next hour, at least, their hearts were more than usually prepared for deeds of gentleness and mercy.

Why are such scenes so uncommon? Why do we thus repress our sympathies and chill the genial current of nature by formal observances and restraints? LYDIA MARIA CHILD.

TITMOUSE IS INVITED TO
SATIN LODGE.

ITTLEBAT was sitting in his room in a somewhat dismal humor, musing on many things and little imagining the intense interest he had excited in the feelings of the amiable occupants of Satin Lodge. A knock at his door startled him out of his revery. Behold, on opening it, Mr. Tagrag! "Your most obedient, sir," commenced that gentleman, in a subdued and obsequious manner, plucking off his hat the instant that he saw Titmouse. 'I hope you're better, sir? Been very uneasy, sir, about you."

"Please to walk in, sir," replied Titmouse, not a little fluttered. "I'm better, sir, I thank you."

"Happy to hear it, sir, but am also come to offer humble apologies for the rudeness of that upstart that was so rude to you yesterday at my premises. Know whom I mean, eh? Lutestring. I shall get rid of him. I do think-"

"Thank you, sir. But-but when I was in your employ-"

"Was in my employ '!" interrupted Tagrag, with a sigh. "It's no use trying to hide it any longer: I've all along seen you was a world too good-quite above your situation in my poor shop. I may have been wrong,

Mr. Titmouse," he continued, diffidently, as he placed himself on what seemed the only chair in the room, "but I did it all for the best. Eh? Don't you understand me, Mr. Titmouse?"

Titmouse continued looking on the floor incredulously and sheepishly:

"Very much obliged, sir, but must say you've rather a funny way of showing it, sir. Look at the sort of life you've led me for this-"

"Ah! knew you'd say so. But I can lay my hand on my heart, Mr. Titmouse, and declare to God-I can indeed, Mr. Titinouse." Titmouse preserved a very embarrassing silence. "See I'm out of your good books, but won't you forget and forgive, Mr. Titmouse? I meant well. Nay, I humbly beg forgiveness for everything you've not liked in me. Can I say more? Come, Mr. Titmouse; you've a noble nature, and I ask forgiveness."