and the creaking of the cranes outside the stores. At about nine o'clock up ran the ball at the signal-post, which announced the approach of the mail-boat, and as she steamed behind the Castle, and anchored in the roads, there were hasty embraces and shakes of the hand on the pier, and the passengers were rowed out to embark. A few minutes, and the tinkling of a bell was heard from the shore; another—one more; her wheels were turning, she was off for Southampton, and the passengers from Jersey were landing at the quay.

All this, and much more, might John Barker have seen, and probably he did see it, but found nothing beautiful or exciting in it. He did not hold his breath as that cutter approached and ran between the pier-heads, her sail dipping in the wave which bore her in. He saw it a dozen times that day, and had seen it a hundred times before, but never cared to see it again. He worked sullenly on, exchanging few words with his fellow-labourers, till the twilight compelled them to shoulder their tools; and they then made their way, alas! to the many public-houses near, and one of them we must enter with John Barker, and see the Sixpence, that little messenger of good—that talent committed to his care—far worse than wasted by its responsible owner. Happily, the payment was not long delayed, and glad shall we be to hide our eyes and stop our ears from all that goes on without in the till with our little friend.

It is about midnight, the noisy guests are gone, the people of the house are in bed, and we may now venture forth from our hiding-place to look through the chink in the door. It is a clear frosty night. The moon, just rising, is brightly reflected in the water. The stars are looking silently down on the sleeping town. Castle Cornet rises gloomily out of the sea. The moonlit sky, which shows us its outline only, leaves much to the imagination. We may fancy it a frowning fortress of modern days; or we may go back two hundred years, and think we see the ruin which told of its nine-years' siege. But we would rather think of Castle Cornet as we know it now, with its old keep standing as a monument of bygone days; or better still, we would thank the rising moon for veiling it in such solemn mystery, and would let our fancy share the rest which seems to pervade all around, while we enjoy the perfect stillness. There is not a sound, except the ripple of the water. Houses, streets, ships, men, women, and children, all seem resting peacefully in the silent night. But, hark! there was a sound of cracking from the window! Again and again we hear it, and whispering too outside. A few moments more, and the window is opened, and two men have crept in. They are some of the guests of the evening come to recover thus what they and their companions have wasted here to-night, that they may have it to waste once more. The till was quickly rifled, and at a slight noise overhead the thieves beat a precipitate retreat, and, in their haste, dropped our Sixpence in the street outside. Happy little Sixpence! to have escaped such hands; better to lie on the cold, hard pavement, curtained by the freezing air, than stay to be used as the fruits of theft invariably are.

It was only just light when a little girl, whose rosy cheeks told that the country air had kissed them that morning, passed by with a basket on her arm nearly as big as herself. Her bright eyes soon spied the little piece of money, and with a dart she caught it up; but, like an honest girl, looked round to see if any one had dropped it. There was nobody near but a dirty, good-tempered-looking coalheaver, who, seeing her perplexity, said, "It must have been there all night, for nobody but me has passed this morning; so you may keep it, if you like." Quite content, she tripped away with her basket to join her mother in the market, and tell of her good fortune.

Being a wise little maiden, Mary Falla did not spend her money that day, but took it home all safe and sound, to gain time for consideration on so important a subject. No selfish thoughts