after he had finished his laugh.

The hand of Thomas was in his pocket, and his fingers had grasped the silver coin, yet still he hesitated.

"Will you play, or not?" the friend of Boyd now said, with something of impatience in his tone. "Say yes, or no."

For a moment the mind of Thomas became confused—then the perception came upon him as clear as a sunbeam, that it was wrong to gamble. He remembered, too, vividly his father's parting injunction.

"No," he said, firmly and decidedly.

Both of his companions looked disappointed and angry.

"What did you bring him for?" he heard Boyd's companion say to him in an under tone, while a frown darkened upon his brow.

The reply did not reach his ear, but he felt that his company was no longer pleasant, and rising, he bade them a formal good-evening, and hurriedly retired. That little word no had saved him. The scheme was, to win from him his forty dollars, and then involve him in "debts of honor," as they are falsely called, which would compel him to draw upon his father for more money, or abstract it from his employer, a system which had been pursued by Boyd, and which was discovered only a week subsequent, when the young man was discharged in disgrace. It then came out, that he had been for months in secret association with a gambler, and that the two shared together the spoils and peculations.

This incident roused Thomas Howland to a distinct consciousness of the danger that lurked in his path, as a young man, in a large city. He felt, as he had not felt while simply listening to his father's precept, the value of the word no; and resolved that hereafter he would utter that little word, and that, too, decidedly, whenever urged to do what his judgment did not approve.

"I will be free!" he said, pacing his chamber backward and forward. "I will be free, hereafter! No one shall persuade me or drive me to do what I feel to be wrong."

That conclusion was his safeguard ever after. When tempted, and he was tempted frequently, his "No" decided the matter at once. There was a power in it that was all-sufficient in resisting evil.

WILLY AND THE BEGGAR GIRL.

"An apple, dear mother!"
Cried Willy one day,
Coming in, with his cheeks
Glowing bright, from his play.
"I want a nice apple,
A large one, and red."
"For whom do you want it?"
His kind mother said.

"You know a big apple
I gave you at noon;
And now for another,
My boy, it's too soon."
"There's a poor little girl
At the door, mother dear,"
Said Will, while within
His mild eye shone a tear.

"She says, since last evening
She's eaten no bread;
Her feet are all naked
And bare is her head.
Like me, she's no mother
To love her, I'm sure,
Or she'd not look so hungry,
And ragged, and poor.

"Let me give her an apple;
She wants one, I know;
A nice, large, red apple—
O! do not say no."
First a kiss to the lips
Of her generous boy,
Mamma gave with a feeling
Of exquisite joy—

For goodness, whene'er
In a child it is seen,
Gives joy to the heart
Of a mother, I ween—
And then led her out, where,
Still stood by the door,
A poor little beggar-girl,
Ragged all o'er.

"Please ma'am, I am hungry,"
The little thing said,
"Will you give me to eat
A small piece of bread?"
"Yes, child, you shall have it;
But who sends you out
From dwelling to dwelling
To wander about?"

A pair of mild eyes
To the lady were raised;
"My mother's been sick
For a great many days
So sick she don't know me."
Sobs stifled the rest
And heaved with young sorrow
That innocent breast.

Just then from the store-room—
Where wee Willy run,
As his mother to question
The poor child begun—
Came forth the sweet boy,
With a large loaf of bread,
Held tight in his tiny hands
High o'er his head.

"Here's bread, and a plenty!
Eat, little girl, eat!"
He cried, as he laid
The great loaf at her feet.
The mother smiled gently,
Then, quick through the door
Drew the sad little stranger,
So hungry and poor.

With words kindly spoken
She gave her nice food,
And clothed her with garments
All clean, warm and good.
This done, she was leading
Her out, when she heard
Willy coming down stairs,
Like a fluttering bird.

A newly bought leghorn,
With green bow and band.
And an old, worn out beaver
He held in his hand.
"Here! give her my new hat,"
He cried; "I can wear
My black one all summer—
It's good—you won't care—

"Say! will you, dear mother?"
First out through the door,
She passed the girl kindly;
Then quick from the floor
Caught up the dear fellow,
Kissed and kissed him again,
While her glad tears fell freely
O'er his sweet face like rain.

THE GOOD SON.

Little Martin went to a peasant and endeavored to procure employment, by which he might be able to earn some money.

"Yes," said the peasant, "I will take you for a herds-boy, and if you are industrious, will give you your board and ten dollars for the whole summer."

"I will be very industrious," said Martin, "but I beg you to pay me my wages every week, for I have a poor father at home to whom I wish to carry all I earn."

The peasant,