"and, there

Bob trembled, and got a little nearer to the ruler. He had a momentary idea of knocking Scrooge down with it, holding him, and calling for help.

"A merry Christmas, Bob!" said Scrooge, with an earnestness that could not be mistaken, as he clapped him on the back. "A merrier Christmas, Bob, my good fellow, than I have given you for many a year! I'll raise your salary, and endeavor to assist your struggling family, and we will discuss your affairs this very afternoon. Make up the fires and buy another coal scuttle before you dot another i, Bob Cratchit!"

Scrooge was better than his word. He did it all, and infinitely more. He became as good a friend, as good a master, and as good a man, as the good old city knew, or any other good old city, town, or borough, in the good old world. Some people laughed to see the alteration in him, but he let them laugh, and little heeded them; for he was wise enough to know that nothing ever happened on this globe, for good, at which some people did not have their fill of laughter in the outset. His own heart laughed, and that was quite enough for him.

- CHARLES DICKENS.

THE SISTER OF CHARITY

She once was a lady of honor and wealth;
Bright glowed in her features the roses of health;
Her vesture was blended of silk and of gold,
And her motion shook perfume from every fold.
Joy reveled around her, love shone at her side,
And gay was her smile as the glance of a bride;
And light was her step in the mirth-sounding hall
When she heard of the daughters of Vincent de Paul.

She felt in her spirit the summons of grace
That called her to live for her suffering race;
And, heedless of pleasure, of comfort, of home,
Rose quickly like Mary, and answered, "I come."
She put from her person the trappings of pride,
And passed from her home with the joy of a bride;
Nor wept at the threshold as onward she moved,
For her heart was on fire in the cause it approved.

Lost ever to fashion, to vanity lost,

That beauty that once was the song and the toast;
No more in the ball-room that figure we meet,
But gliding at dusk to the wretch's retreat.
Forgot in the halls is that high-sounding name,
For the Sister of Charity blushes at fame;
Forgot are the claims of her riches and birth,
For she barters for Heaven the glory of Earth.

Those feet that to music could gracefully move

Now bear her alone on the mission of love;

Those hands that once dangled the perfume and gem Are tending the helpless or lifted for them;

That voice that once echoed the song of the vain

Now whispers relief to the bosom of pain;

And the hair that was shining with diamond and pearl Is wet with the tears of the penitent girl.

Her down-bed - a pallet; her trinkets — a bead;
Her luster one taper, that serves her to read;
Her sculpture the crucifix nailed by her bed;
Her paintings - one print of the thorn-crowned head;
Her cushion the pavement that wearies her knees;
Her music the psalm, or the sigh of disease:
The delicate lady lives mortified there,

And the feast is forsaken for fasting and prayer.

Yet not to the service of heart and of mind
Are the cares of the heaven-minded virgin confined;
Like Him whom she loves, to the mansions of grief
She hastes with the tidings of joy and relief;
She strengthens the weary, she comforts the sick;
Where want and affliction on mortals attend,
The Sister of Charity there is a friend.

Unshrinking where pestilence scatters his breath,
Like an angel she moves 'mid the vapors of death;
Where rings the loud musket and flashes the sword
Unfearing she walks, for she follows her Lord.
How sweetly she bends o'er each plague-tainted face
With looks that are lighted with holiest grace!
How kindly she dresses each suffering limb!
For she sees in the wounded the image of Him.

Behold her, ye worldly! behold her, ye vain!
Who shrink from the pathway of virtue and pain;
Who yield up to pleasure your nights and your days,
Forgetful of service, forgetful of praise.

Ye lazy philosophers, self-seeking men;

Ye fireside philanthropists, great at the pen;
How stands in the balance your eloquence, weighed
With the life and the deeds of that high-born maid?
- GERALD GRIFFIN.

This world is all a fleeting show,
For man's illusion given;
The smiles of joy, the tears of woe,
Deceitful shine, deceitful show,
There's nothing true but Heaven.

- THOMAS MOORE.

SAINT AUGUSTINE AND THE ENGLISH

Nothing is known of Augustine's history previous to the solemn days in which, in obedience to the commands of the pontiff, who had been his abbot, he and his forty comrades tore themselves from the motherly bosom of that community which was to them as their native land. He must, as prior of the monastery, have exhibited distinguished qualifications ere he could have been chosen by Gregory for such a mission. But there is nothing to show that his companions were at that time animated with the same zeal which inspired the Pope.

They arrived without hindrance in Provence, and stopped for some time at Lerins, where they received frightful accounts of the country which they were going to convert.

They were told that the Anglo-Saxon people were a nation of wild beasts, thirsting for innocent blooda race whom it was impossible to approach or conciliate. They took fright at these tales; and persuaded Augustine to return to Rome to beseech the Pope to relieve them from a journey so toilsome, so perilous, and so useless.

Instead of listening to their request, Gregory sent Augustine back to them with a letter in which they were ordered to recognize him henceforth as their