good, and I rather think the little girl feels better for giving, so I am sure we ought to be glad.'

'I wish I could find out her name,' said Effie, 'perhaps it is on the purse.' Harry drew the silken purse from his pocket, and after examining it closely, found engraved on one of the rings the name of 'Rosa Lynmore.'

In the evening the children related the events of the day to their mother, and found her approbation a sufficient reward for all their self-denial. The conduct of Rosa Lynmore was duly canvassed, too; and, while Mrs Maurice praised her generosity, she endeavoured to shew her children the difference between this one impulsive act, and the constant, self-denying effort which is the result of true benevolence. 'This little girl,' she said, 'may make but a small sacrifice in parting with this money, not half so great as it would be to go and seek out the poor woman and administer to her necessities, but still we have no right to find fault with what is so well done, and I am sure, my children, that you do not desire it.'

'No, mother,' said Effie, 'I see now why you told me not to judge Mrs Wiston by appearances; if I had come away a little sooner, I should have thought this pretty Rosa Lynmore one of the most selfish little girls in the world. But now I know she was only thoughtless.'

'Well, I hope, my child, you will always remember not to judge hastily, and without sufficient reason; yet to be utterly blind to the apparent faults of those around you, is neither safe nor wise. It is not safe, because by being too credulous you may easily make yourself the object of imposition; and not wise, because, by such indiscriminate charity, you lose a useful lesson.'

'I think, mother,' said Harry, 'that I can see the lesson we can learn from Rosa Lynmore's faults.'

'I don't see that she has any faults,' said Effie, earnestly. 'I am sure, Harry, you ought not to make so much of that one careless little word about the bonnet; it was an ugly bonnet, with so deep a front that I dare say Rosa didn't see the poor woman's pale face.'

'You call it a careless word, Effie,' said Mrs Maurice, 'you admit that this little girl was guilty of thoughtlessness, and surely you cannot consider that no fault—but under certain circumstances this fault is more pardonable than under others. Now you know nothing of these circumstances, and so could not, if you wished, be Rosa Lynmore's judge. But, taking everything as it appears, you may draw your lesson without assuming a province which does not belong to you. Now, Harry, we will hear what you have to say.'

'It was not what Rosa said, that I meant, mother,—I was thinking of what we might learn to-day from all her actions, and I am sure I didn't want to blame her more than Effie did.'

'I supposed not, my son.'

'But, mother, Harry had reason to blame her more, for he didn't see how sorry she looked, and how her voice trembled when she said, "She is dead now."—meaning her mother, I shouldn't think a little girl would ever do right, without a mother to teach her.'

'Such children deserve pity, my love, and I am glad you have a heart to pity them, but I suspect that all little girls have wicked thoughts and feelings that they must strive against, and whether they are blessed with parents, or have only a Heavenly Father to guide them, they will have need to watch and pray. But Harry has not given his lesson yet.'

'Father told me a story the other day—an allegory he called it—about impulse and principle.

'Principle went straight forward, and did whatever was right, and tried to make her feelings agree with it, but Impulse hurried along in a very crooked path, stopping here, and then bounding forth at the sight of some new object—one minute neglecting every duty, and the next, doing something so great that everybody was surprised, and praised her beyond all measure. Principle very seldom did wrong, and made so little show, that she was quite unobserved by the world in general, but Impulse was as likely to do wrong as right, and according as good or evil predominated, received her full share of praise or censure. Principle had an approving conscience, and however she might be looked upon by the world, she was contented and happy, while poor Impulse was half of the time tossed about by a light thing called Vanity, or gnawed by a monster named Remorse. I liked the story very much, and I couldn't help remembering it to-day, when the little girl dropped the purse over the side of the sleigh. I thought she was governed by Impulse, and though this is a good act, unless she has a better heart than most people, it is no true sign that the next one will be good.'

'Very true, my son, but you have not explained to Effie what you mean by impulse and principle.'

'You can explain it better than I can, mother. I don't remember half that father said about it.'

'Well, tell me as much as you can remember then.'

'Why, principle means ground of action, and people who are governed by principle always have some good reason for what they do, and do not act without thinking. Father says old people are more apt to be governed by principle of some kind, either good or bad, than children, for he says children generally act first, and think afterwards.'

'And impulse?' inquired Effie.

'People that act from impulse are altogether at the mercy of circumstances, and are driven about by their own feelings. They never wait to inquire whether a thing is right before they do it, but if it seems right for the minute it is sufficient.'

Harry's explanation seemed quite satisfactory to his mother, and what was just then of more importance, to Effie, who, it was but natural, should find some fault with a definition which seemed to throw anything like discredit on her new favourite. Any further allusion to the subject was, however, prevented by the entrance of Mr Maurice, who, as he had been out all day, making charitable and professional instead of fashionable calls, had some very interesting stories to relate. But there was one so strange, and to the children so new, that it threw the rest quite into the shade, and absorbed their whole stock of sympathy. It was late before Mr Maurice finished his story, and as it may be late before our readers get to a better stopping-place, we shall reserve it fer another chapter.

CHAPTER IV.

THE MISER.

'In passing through a narrow back lane,' said Mr Maurice, after relating several tales of minor importance, 'I paused to look upon a low building, so old that one corner of it was sunken so much as to give it a tottering appearance, and if possible it was more dark and dismal than the others. It seemed to be occupied by several families, for a little gray smoke went straggling up from two or three crumbling chimneys, but the rooms were all on the ground floor. As I stood gazing at it, I was startled by a boy (about your age, Harry, or a little older perhaps) who came bounding from the door, and grasping my coat untreated me to go in and see his grandfather.'

'Did you go, father?' inquired Effie, 'wasn't you afraid?'

'Afraid! what had he to be afraid of?' exclaimed her brother, 'I should just as lief go as not.' Yet, notwithstanding the little boy's vaunt there was a slight tremor on his lip, and his large blue eyes grew larger still and darker where they were dark, while the whites became unusually prominent.

'Of course I went,' resumed Mr Maurice, in a sad tone, 'and a fearful