constant association with his detestable companion, Charlie Haxton! But he nerved himself to bear cheerfully, even as Nelson Winthrop did, his troubles. Mary Winthrop changed slates with him on the last day, and that, though he could not tell her how, elevated his spirits wonderfully, and notwithstanding he found it shivered to fragments in his room the next day, yet the remembrance that she offered to give it, comforted him not a little. He knew how and why it was done, but he would not acknowledge that he noticed it, even to Charlie. Mr. Haxton was-and not in a small degree, eithervexed that his son was so much inferior to this dependent in his household, but tried to think it was just as well, for the one needed brains, as he had a fortune to accumulate, and the other required nothing. To Charlie Haxton, the winter had been a miserable waste of days, but to Benny Rollin it lay in memory like an Epic poem, with little idyllic bits of beauty whose rhythm and melody were the voices of Mary Winthrop and Tiny Walton. The latter was the little muffled maiden he had drawn to and from school all winter with the tenderness and consideration of a great-hearted man. He loved the child well, and she was the only creature upon earth that he dared to ask love from, and he had it— unmeasured always. Tiny was the only daughter, and there were but two sons, mere babies, and a halfinvalid father, and as meek, gentle, and loving a mother as ever blessed a child's lip with tender kisses, or followed it with prayers. Mrs. Walton often wished she might ask Benny to come to their house for a home, poor as it was in comparison to the one he had, and she knew he would gladly exchange, but it would offend Mr. Haxton, and he held a mortgage upon their homestead. She dared not do it. Benny spent many evenings in the family, and Mrs. Walton possessed a few old choice books which she spared to Benny, though there was not another one in the settlement, except Mr. Nelson Winthrop, who would have been permitted to fondle them even. Kind, good, and generous as she was, these were her only intimate friends, and they were human to her, both for the instruction. they gave and the consolation they afforded; and she could not risk them. The Log School House was occupied that summer by a girl from the village sixteen miles distant, who brought very little new or good into the hearts of the children; but she initiated some of them into the mysteries of little feminine accomplishments, taught them prettier ways of arranging their sunburned hair, let the boys make saw-teeth of the edges of the benches, write and hieroglyphics upon the smooth spots of plaster and the unpainted walls and window-casings. She taught them of the violets, daisies, and sweet-williams in the woods, and awakened a love for the pretty wild children blossoming under the hedges and by the brook; and, in her ladylike way, performed her mission. Perhaps it was well for them as it was, for they had dealt too long and intimately with the actual of their lives. But when the crisp-brown leaves began to whirl in the dreary autumn winds, it made a deeper inspiration come to the breaths and a stronger bound to the pulse of the little people, to see Nelson Winthrop with his two children approach the school-house once more. It was with a curl of disgust about his lip that he surveyed his once orderly room, but he was one to bear with apparent equanimity what he could not help, after the first twinge of pain was over, and its silent expressions passed from his face. It was a cold winter, after a summer of great heat, and drouth, and discouragement, with but a partial fulfillment of the promise of the spring, when depression seemed to be imparted even to the children, and though Mr. Winthrop with his exquisitely organized nature, and intensely sympathetic heart, felt more than any its enervating influences, yet he strove to throw off the lethargy and enter again upon his labors with renewed zeal. The winter was to have its trials. The smaller pupils had learned disorderly habits, and the awe of the school-room had partially worn off. The older boys had, some of them, been deputied to grind corn at the distiller's mill, and felt as if they were men, because the rich män had drank with them. They felt the restraint to be irksome, particularly Charlie Haxton. He had too often felt his inferiority in the presence of Benny Rollin, and even his father in his impatient moments had contrasted them in the presence of both, and his son thought he had the power of assuming the privilege of manhood first in the way of treating his friends to tobacco and whisky, and fancied the penniless orphan boy would envy him, but even in this expected pleasure he failed to find satisfaction, and he was very morose and idle. But still Mr. Winthrop had his compensating pupils-what teacher has not?-and he comforted himself with them. sparkle of gladness which bubbled up during his first winter had died down to the clear, cold, but pure cup of his existence. The Peter Dally did not find all the attention of the previous winter, but he did not-poor boy!-seem to notice it. The Gordons were perverse, sometimes, and talked of going away to school if the crops were better next year. However little sorrow there would be for this, on the teacher's part, every one who has been a master of a score of children, knows there is a sting in such a remark which leaves a significant pain for hours or days. But Mr. Winthrop failed not to sow the same good seed, even if the prospect of a bountiful harvest was not so brilliant. The evening schools at which the faithful teacher labored to interest the youths in music, and with much success, to a half invalid, though willing man, proved a severe duty. His decided and oft-expressed hostility to dram-drinking and inebriation, in every form, met the opposition of some who should have hearkened to his warning, and these influences served to trouble his thoughts, when outside the dedicated six hours; but when the unusually inviting chances for frolic on the hill-slides and coasting places of gleaming ice, took the edge of discontent from his pupils, he got on better. CHAPTER IV. “My Lord hath need of these flow'rets gay,' 'Dear tokens of the earth are they, Where He was once a child. They shall all bloom in fields of light, And saints, upon their garments white, BUT soon after the ushering of the New Year, fearful lung fevers ravaged the neighborhood, and left their livid touches upon at least the cheeks of one in almost every home in the district. The hardiest seemed first stricken. Poor Sandy McLain's brothers and sisters-seven children in all there were of them-were smitten, and three lay under the snows of midwinter in the still forest burial-place, the first garden of graves planted in that new country. Oh, but it was a sad, sad winter! Tiny Walton had been seized, but the fever had left her, and she lay like a broken lily of the valley, still and white, in the one room of her father's house, with Benny Rollin for a constant watcher. Mary Winthrop's was one of the worst cases known to the unskilled doctor, who, half-farmer, half-physician, and a great deal fool, pre |