feet, and put on her stockings and shoes, saying many times, "I am sorry, Meggie, dear; I am so sorry!"

"O, never mind, it was only a joke," said Meggie, and tried to smile, though she suffered a great deal more than Archie knew of.

But Meggie's troubles were only begun. When they went down to breakfast, Mrs. Graham, who had seen from the parlor window the tracks of little bare feet in the snow, questioned the children about them. Meggie owned up at once that she had run out barefoot in the snow, because it looked so soft and nice, but said not a word about Archie's having prompted her to the foolish act; and I really blush to say that Archie himself was not frank and brave enough to acknowledge his fault. The fact is, he was afraid of his father, who was a stern and godly man, and had small mercy for the sins of little folks. Both the Rector and his wife reproved Meggie for her thoughtlessness, and the gentle little girl shed some silent tears; but, after all, I think Archie, who sat trying to gulp down his breakfast with a bold face, suffered the most. All day long he was unusually kind to his cousin, and she soon got over her sadness, and was as merry and loving as ever.

The next morning, when the nursery-maid came to awake Archie, she told him that his cousin had been taken very ill in the night,—so ill that they had had to send for the doctor, who feared that she might never get well. She had taken a violent cold, some way, he said.

Archie hurried on his clothes, and ran down to the nursery. He found his mother sitting by Meggie's little bed, looking very sad and anxious. He stole up to his cousin, and taking her little hand, hot with fever, bent down and kissed it, with a burst of bitter tears, sobbing out, "O Meggie, forgive me, do, do forgive me!"

"Forgive you for what, Archie?" asked Mrs. Graham.

"For being cruel and cowardly, mamma. It was I who sent Meggie out into the snow, bare-foot, and then was afraid to take my share of the blame. I was so miserable all day. I came near owning it when you kissed me good night, but papa looked so solemn, I could n't. I did n't say my prayers; I felt too mean to pray."

"God forgive you, my son!" said Mrs. Graham, somewhat sternly; but little Meggie murmured, in a sweet, faint voice, "O Cousin Archie, why did you tell? Maybe I would have died, and nobody but us would ever have known anything about it."

Meggie did not die, however. She got well after a long illness,—quite well. But this was the last of Archie's hoaxing.

BABIE ANNIE TO COUSIN J——.

ACKNOWLEDGING THE CHRISTMAS-GIFT OF A CHAIN.

You should have seen me, when papa
Brought me your gift, an hour ago;
I almost hopped out of my shoes,
And raised a mighty bantam crow!

I shook my hair about my eyes,
I flung my chubby arms about,
I hugged it, and an eager score
Of "pretty pretties" sputtered out.

I grasp it, gloat upon it now,—
My fingers glide from link to link;
I like its shine, I like its feel,
I like its golden chink a-chink.

I thank you—_don't_ I thank you, though!
My darling, dashing, handsome cousin!
I 'll pat your whiskers, when we meet,
And give you kisses by the dozen.

I 'll promise not to pull your hair,
When on your shoulder next I mount,
Nor bore my fingers in your ears,
Too often bored on my account.

Those fingers light shall never leave
On velvet waistcoat one faint crease,
Nor give your profile, clear and fine,
Another needless touch of Greece.

I will not bend the killing bow
Of that nice neck-tie, "rich, but neat,"
Nor put a ruffle in your shirt,
Nor break the white plaits with my feet.

The sacred collar shall not bear
The impress of a touch of mine;
Your sparkling diamond studs, like dews,
Shall on the lawn inviolate shine.

I will not fumble for your seals,
Nor listen where your tick-tick lies,—
Nor dare to call in anger down
The heavy lashes of your eyes.

In short, I 'll be a tender sprig,
A greenwood blossom small and sweet,
To hang upon your button-hole,
Or breathe love's fragrance at your feet.

THE DAY AT THE CASTLE.

The Reverend Charles Rivers was the Rector of a small country parish in the North of England. He was a good man, a true minister of Christ to his people. He had a lovely wife, and four beautiful children, and there was no happier or sweeter home in all the country round than the modest little Rectory, embowered in ivy and climbing roses.

Four or five miles from the parish church, on a noble eminence, rise the lofty towers of Glenmore Castle, which for centuries has been the great family seat of the Lords of Glenmore. It is surrounded by beautiful gardens, laid out in the French style, with hedges of box, full ten feet high. Beyond these a noble wooded park stretches away on all sides, for miles, taking in hill and valley, and a fairy little lake. To the southward it is crossed by a lazy, loitering stream, shadowed by willows, fringed with flags, and in the early summer flecked by snowy water-lilies.

The Lord Glenmore of the time of my story was a handsome young nobleman, married to a pretty London lady, very gay and fond of splendor, but kind-hearted and gentle to every one.

Whenever Lord Glenmore came up from London to his northern estate,—usually in the shooting season of the early autumn,—the happy event was made known to his tenants and friends, by the running up of a flag on the loftiest turret of the Castle.

Mr. Rivers had been his tutor, and his Lordship always hastened to renew his intimacy with his old friend and instructor, for whom he had a warm regard, running into the Rectory in his old, boyish, unceremonious way, and frequently inviting the Rector and his wife to dine at the Castle.

During one of these pleasant dinner-parties, Lord Glenmore, turning to Mrs. Rivers, said: "I know from happy experience that you and your good husband are always ready to lend a helping hand when one is in need. Now Laura and I want a little help. We have had a rather embarrassing arrival at the Castle,—the motherless little son and daughter of my brother, Colonel Montford. They were sent over from India, at our suggestion, but we hardly know what to do with them. They are shy and homesick, and thus far have had little to say to any one but their dusky old Ayah, their Indian nurse. Now, children can get on best with children, and so, my dear madam, I beg that you will lend us yours,—those charming little daughters, staid Margaret and roguish Maud, and that fine lad Robert. As for wee Master Alfred, my baby godson, I make no demand on him for the present. We think that if they could spend a day at the Castle now and then, they would help to break the ice between us and our unsocial little relations!"

Mr. and Mrs. Rivers willingly consented to their friends' request, and the next day was fixed upon for the first visit, both Lord and Lady Glenmore promising to do all in their power to entertain their young guests.

Early on a lovely autumn morning the children at the Rectory were made ready for the important visit. As soon as Lord Glenmore's