cannot bear to give it away. It was hers; she wore it herself. I shall not keep it a great while longer, at any rate. I can desire my uncle to give it to the school when I am gone." She covered her face with her hands, but you could see her tears through her thin, emaciated fingers.

Her friend, who had told her about the school, simply to please and interest her, begged her not to think any more of giving away the necklace, and spoke to her of something else.

"No," said she, "I cannot keep it, now that it has come into my mind that I ought to give it to you for the school. You must take it. Forgive my weakness; the thought of my dear departed mother brings the tears to my eyes."

"Think again, then, before you give away this precious necklace," said the good man.

She put the necklace into his hand, and said, as she did so, "I have thought of it again, and I have decided to give it."

He took it, and left the generous-hearted girl, praying that she might recover, but fearing that he should never see her again.

Not long after this, in a steamboat, he met a gentleman with whom he had much conversation upon various subjects; among others the institution for the instruction of the poor runaways. He mentioned among other things this poor girl's gift, and her grief at parting with her mother's gold necklace. "I hated," said he, "to take it. She will not stay here long, and her pleasures are very few." He mentioned also the name of the town in New Hampshire where she lived.

"That is my native place," said the gentleman to whom he was relating the story. "Will you let me see the necklace?"

"Certainly," said the missionary, and he took it from his pocket.

"What sum of money shall you obtain for this necklace?"

"I have had it weighed," said he, "and I shall get so much money for it," naming the sum.

"Are you willing to sell it to me for that sum?"

"Certainly; that is all I can obtain for it."

The bargain was concluded. The stranger paid the sum. Then, putting the necklace into his own pocket, he said, "She shall have it for a new year's gift."

Now let us, on the first of January, visit the poor sick girl again. Early in the morning, some one hands her a little parcel—she opens it, and there is her precious necklace, the gift of her dear mother in the heavenly land. It is accompanied by a short note in which the writer begs her not to part with the necklace again while she lives, but to consider it her own to do as she pleases with it at her death.

The stranger, who had purchased the necklace, and sent it back to the poor girl, knew the true value of riches, and understood and enjoyed the luxury of doing good, of making the poor and the sorrowful rejoice. He was the same man who planned the dinner."

After tea, Mrs. Chilton took out her manuscript book.

"The story I shall read," said she, "is a very painful one, but sadly true. If it makes you very unhappy, you must try to let it save you from committing the fault which was so severely punished. All the essential facts are true, as I shall read them to you.

"IT IS ONLY A TRIFLE."

"Be sure, my son," said Mr. Pratt, as he left his counting room, in Philadelphia, "be sure that you send that money to Mr. Reid to-day; direct it carefully, and see that all is done in proper form and order."

"Yes, sir," replied George, "I will."

George fully intended to obey implicitly. He was, in the main, desirous to do right; but he had one great fault. When he had a small duty to perform, he was apt to say and think, "O, that is only a trifle. Why should we lay so much stress on trifles?" He would often say, when any one found fault with him for the neglect of a small duty, "I am sure it is only a trifle."

George, as soon as he had finished something he was about, wrote the letter according to the directions given him, carefully enclosed the money in it, nicely folded and sealed it. Just as he was preparing to direct it, a young man opened the door of the counting room in great haste, and begged him to go with him that moment, to speak to some one who was then passing.

"I can direct and carry the letter," said George's younger brother; "I know to whom it is to go, and I can send it just as well as you."

George had a slight feeling in his heart that he ought not to leave this letter to any one to direct; but his brother again said, "I should think I could do such a trifling thing as that; I can surely direct a letter, though I cannot write one yet."

Frank was the younger apprentice, and was anxious to get forward and do what George did.

"Well," said George, "you may do it, but be sure you do it right. John Reid, you know, is the name;" and he went with his companion. "It is only a trifle," he said to himself, as he remembered his father's charge. "I have done all that is really important. It is of little consequence who directs and carries the letter." So he chased away the slight cloud that hung over his mind as he left the counting room with his friend.

These slight clouds that rise in the soul's horizon, so prophetic, so full of mercy or of terror as we regard or slight them! "Why do we not learn their meaning? Why are they not ever messengers of love and peace to us? Had George stopped and considered, perhaps he would not have done as he did, perhaps he would not have called this duty a trifle, and would not have left the counting room till he had performed every tittle of his father's command.

The letter was directed and sent. Frank did as well as he knew how.

When George returned, he asked, "Have you directed the letter to Mr. John Reid?"

"Yes, I have, and carried it to the office."

"Did you enclose that money to Mr. Reid, George?" asked his father, when he next saw him.

"Yes, sir," George replied, with a slight hesitation, which, however, he soon got over; "for," said he to himself, "I enclosed the money carefully; what does it matter whether Frank or I directed the letter?" So he spoke out freely to his father.

"All right, father; the letter is on its way to Ohio."

Unfortunately his father had not noticed his hesitation, was satisfied, and asked no further questions.

Again George checked the monitions of his conscience. Again he said to himself, "It's only a trifle." He had yet to learn that no duty is a trifle.

Weeks passed, and there was no acknowledgment of the money. At last a letter arrived from Mr. Reid to Mr. Pratt, requesting him, if convenient, to pay the two hundred dollars promised to him some weeks before.

Mr. Reid was a poor man, to whom two hundred dollars was an important sum.

Mr. Pratt again questioned his son, and was again assured that the money had been sent, and wrote to Mr. Reid accordingly, advising him to inquire at the post office.

There happened to be a young man in the office, by the name of Harry Brown, whose mother was a widow. She was poor, and a stranger in the town. Her son had obtained his place on account of his quick intelligence, and because he could also write a very good hand. Strong suspicions fell upon him. He was questioned about the letter, and at last Mr. Reid accused him of the theft.

The young man's indignation was uncontrollable; he turned white with anger; he could not speak; he stammered and clenched his fists, and at last burst into tears and left the office.

All this was taken for the agony of detected guilt and neither the postmaster nor Mr. Reid attempted to stop him, for neither of them wished to have him punished, and they hoped to recover the money by gentler means.

We will now change the scene. Let us enter this small, neat cottage. There are but two rooms on the floor. One is kitchen and parlor, the other a bed room. A sort of ladder in one corner intimates that in the small attic is also a sleeping place. A small table is spread for two people; it is very clean and nice, but every thing that you