THE LOST POCKET-BOOK.

It was a cheerless afternoon. A biting, freezing wind drove the slowly-sifting snow before it like a blinding mist; and the clouds hung so low as almost to touch the black roofs of the houses.

"How desolate it is," Mrs. Halpine sighed, glancing out from her window on the gloomy prospect below, as she smoothed and folded the garment she had just completed; "and the cold is bitter. I don't like to send you out, Louise; but there's not a lump of coal, nor a pinch of flour, and Willie must have that medicine. I'd go myself, but

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O, mother, no! let me go-I don't mind if it is cold. I'll hurry back;" and the little girl sprang up from her low seat beside the infant's cradle, and began to fasten on her faded cloak and bood.

"Well, I suppose you must," the mother continued, as she wrapped up the delicately embroidered garment, "You know the place? Mr. Rawdon's, in street."

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Yes, yes, mother! I know."

Well, dear, run fast, and keep yourself warm; and say to Mrs. Rawdon that I'd have finished the work before, if Willie hadn't been so sick. Twelve shillings she owes me. You can call at the baker's and get a loaf or two."

The child took the bundle, and vanished out of sight down the dreary flight of steps; while the mother turned back to the cradle where the sick child lay. He held up his little hands and moaned piteously. "Give me some tea, mamma; I'm so dry."

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Yes, darling, just as soon as Louise comes."

Her eyes filled with tears as she raised the little fellow to her bosom, clasping him closely to keep him warm, for there was no fire in the stove, and the desolate room was very comfortless. Yet there had been a day when this same pale-faced, meek-eyed woman, sat in a luxurious chamber, with every comfort that heart could wish within her reach; and a doting husband's strong arms of love to encircle and protect her. But her husband was dead, lying, unknown, on some distant battle-field, and her riches had made themselves wings and flown away. Forlorn and friendless, sick at heart, and weary from incessant toil, she sat, with her wailing babe upon her bosom, gazing out with hopeless, tearful eyes, upon the dismal scene beneath her window.

THE LOST POCKET-BOOK.

In the meantime, little Louise made her way through narrow bystreets, and squalid alleys, into the most populous and fashionable part of the town. The biting wind still continued to blow with a dreary, saddening wail, drifting the low, leaden clouds, and the mist-like snow. But she walked on bravely, and reached, at last, Mrs. Kawdon's. A dazzling glow of light poured from all the lofty windows, and sounds of music and merry-making floated out upon the frosty air. Mrs. Rawdon was giving a grand party in honour of her eldest daughter's birthday. Louise crept up the marble steps, and pulled the bell. A footman in livery answered her timid summons.

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Can I see Mrs. Rawdon, please sir?" she asked.

"See Mrs. Rawdon, indeed! and she in the parlour in the very middle of the company!-Of course you can't."

He was closing the door, but Louise caught at his sleeve, and cried imploringly, "O, sir, please, please wait! Here's the work she wanted; Miss Violet's frock, you know. Mother promised it to-night; do let me take it up to her."

The man hesitated a moment, and then turned back.

"Miss Violet's frock," he said; "she wanted it, I know. I heard her fussing because it didn't come home. May be she'll see you. I'll try, anyhow. Come in here and wait."

Louise followed him through the arched hall, and past the glittering parlours, into a kind of ante-room adjoining the supper room. Here motioning her to a seat, he went in search of his mistress. But it was a full half-hour before Mrs. Rawdon could disengage herself from her guests; and poor little Louise, tired out with waiting, and benumbed with cold, was just on the point of bursting into tears, when the lady swept into the room.

"I

"This is a pretty business, now, isn't it?" she began, as she received and unfolded the bundle that Louise proffered her. thought you promised to bring this yesterday?"

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Yes, ma'am; but little Willie was so sick that mother couldn't sew.

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O yes! that's always the way-you've some excuse ready; but I shan't trust you again, you may depend on it. Here

Violet's been crying for an hour, and refused to come down be cause she was so disappointed about her dress. John, ring the bell for Jane to take it up to her. I must go back to the parlour now."

THE LOST POCKET-BOOK.

She was sweeping out again, her satin robes rustling after her; but Louise sprang up, with a piteous cry, "O, ma'am ! little brother's so ill, and must have his medicine; please let me have the money!"

"I can't to-night-I'm entirely out of change. You can call the day after to-morrow."

But Louise was not to be repulsed. She caught the lady's hand in both of her little frozen palms. One of the rings that adorned Mrs. Rawdon's soft fingers would have procured all the comforts her mother and little Willie so sorely needed. Some such thought flashed through the child's mind as she made her appeal.

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O, madam!" she said, her blue eyes full of imploring entreaty, "you are rich and happy, and have all you want; but my poor mother has nothing; and my little brother will die without medicine! Do let me have the money?"

Mrs. Rawdon shook her off impatiently. "I tell you I've no change. You must call again. John, show her to the door!"

The footman obeyed, and Louise soon found herself upon the granite steps, while the lofty door closed in her very face with a heartless slam.

The wind howled more dismally than ever, and the keen, stinging sleet fell like a shower of shot. Louise descended the steps, and crossed over to the opposite sidewalk with a dull, aching pain at her heart, that almost took away her breath. How could she go back to her desolate home, and tell her poor mother that she had failed to collect her hard-earned wages; tell her that they were not able to buy even so much as a solitary loaf? Was it right that others should have so much, while they lacked daily bread? Just then something beneath her foot, soft and slippery, almost threw her to the pavement. Looking down, she saw a pocket-book. She caught it up with a suppressed cry, and, thrusting it into her bosom, darted off at the speed of an antelope. At last, out of breath, and half beside herself with excitement, she paused beneath a lamp-post, and after glancing stealthily around her, drew the treasure from her bosom. It was large, thick, and heavy. Her fingers fluttered nervously as she unclasped it; and when she caught sight of the bank notes it contained, she uttered a cry of delight and darted off again like something insane. Mother and Willie should have all they needed now!

THE LOST POCKET-BOOK.

Just beyond the baker's shop, toward which she bent her steps, a soldier met her.

"Little girl," he said, arresting her flying steps, "you didn't find a pocket-book as you came along, did you?"

Louise paused a single instant, her heart fluttering like a frightened bird; then, as a thought of her mother and Willie flashed through her mind, she answered, No sir!"

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"Well, it's gone, I suppose," and the soldier passed on, while Louise hurried away in the opposite direction.

By the time she reached the baker's she was in a tremor from head to foot, and her cheeks seemed on fire; but she drew the pocket-book from its hiding-place, and, standing outside the door, unclasped it, and took out a note. The shop was crowded with customers, and she had to wait for her turn before she could obtain what she wanted. Her eyes wandered wistfully round the tempting shelves. She would buy ever so many loaves; and even that frosted cake. They would have coal and flour. Why not? The pocket-book was hers, she had found it. Still her hands trembled, and her cheeks burned. She glanced down at the note she held, and saw, with a start of horror, that it was for ten pounds. What had she done? Robbed that man of his money and he a soldier. Her father had been a soldier. With a sharp cry, clutching the pocket-book in one hand, and the ten pound note in the other, she darted from the shop, and down the snowy street. Just a square or two beyond the glittering mansion of Mrs. Rawdon she overtook the soldier. He was walking slowly, glancing from one side of the icy pavement to the other with an anxious despairing look on his face. Louise was at his side in an instant.

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O sir!" panting for breath, her hood thrown back, her blue eyes wild and startled, and her bright hair blown all about her flushed face, "I did find your pocket-book-here it is. I took this note out, but I couldn't spend it. Mother's almost starved, and little Willie will die without his medicine, but I can't stealI can't I can't take it back!"

The soldier took the money from the half-frozen little hands that held it up to him; then, lifting the child in his arms, he smoothed back her tangled locks, and looked down into her pale tear-stained little face with eager startled eyes. His swarthy cheek grew pale, and his bearded lips began to tremble.

THE LOST POCKET-BOOK.

"Louise, Louise!" he said, his voice full of thrilling tenderness; "poor little darling, don't you know me?"

The child looked up, and then her cry of wild delight rang out clear and joyous.

“O, father, father! we thought you were dead! but you've come back to us again."

"Yes, darling!" his broad chest heaving with suppressed eager. ness. "Where's your mother? Take me to her?"

Louise sprang from his arms, and shot off like an arrow down the brilliant street, through the squalid alleys and dark by-lanes, and the soldier followed her.

Mrs. Halpine sat in her comfortless room, hushing her sick child upon her bosom.

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Mamma, mamma! I'm so hungry; please give me some tea," the little fellow moaned, clasping his hot arms about her neck. But the last spark of fire had gone out, and Louise did not come. "Wait a moment, darling-just a moment longer."

And the patient little one waited; and the cold gray shadows settled down darker and darker; and the poor mother clasped the child closer to her bosom, dreaming of happy days gone by, and of the dear husband who had gone to his last long home with no tender hand to close his eyes.

The shadows grew heavier and darker; the winds moaned dismally, and the snow and sleet tinkled sharply against the windows. O, mamma! please make a light, I'm so cold, and the dark makes me afraid!"

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Wait a little bit longer, darling! Louise will come soon." At last there was a noise below, a bounding, joyous step upon the stairs, and Louise burst into the room, her face glowing and radiant.

'O, mother, mother!" she cried, "father's not dead! He's alive-he's come back to us again!"

The soldier's wife rose to her feet, grasping at the bed-post for support; as she did so, strong arms clasped her to a warm and loving bosom.

Louise crept up to her father's feet, her blue eyes swimming with tears.

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"O, father! what if I had kept it?" she asked, with tears in her voice.

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Then, dear, you would not have found me. Always remem, ber that wrong wins its punishment, and right its reward!"