the writing, for she read, "Died, upon Christmas day, our little Billy, ten years ago." Oh, Billy, Billy she had wept for you when she was far younger, and when her husband had held her to him before that mute registry of sorrow, while his tears had fallen with hers; and when he wrote the poor little words no wonder he wrote them crookedly and tremulously. But now, to think that he should have placed the money here, upon that place of all others! Her tears grew angry; she hated him! He insulted even the memory of their child! Then she felt faint; a great light broke upon her. Suppose it was not her child? suppose she had not brought it into the world? suppose Tobias's contrition made him look up her own child lost in orphan-asylums and homes for friendless children? She laughed wildly at her own foolishness, but she stopped short; Mrs. Simpson and sensational novels were working; she had not read sweet tales of romance for nothing. Suppose her own blessed child had been swapped for another in its cradle? suppose her husband was already a married man when he married her? suppose he had two wives living? No, she was not Billy's mother; her own child, for all she knew, was a vagrant in the streets. Then who was Billy? Billy was his father's child, but he was none of hers; and he had been palmed off on her to care for because his father loved his mother. She was thoroughly dazed by the weighty logic of her reasoning; she closed the book and put her hand to her head to try to remember. No use, no use; memory even was false to her, and she only knew that she was an injured woman. But Tobias? Where was Tobias now while she had lingered so long here? She hurried down-stairs only to see him going out. She went too; she saw him far before her, stopping ragged boys. What road was this he was taking? Surely not to the churchyard? It was even so. With her heart like lead, she followed and saw him go into the silent meadow, pass along the paleness of the graveyard, and, singling out a little mound, lean his head down as she had so often seen him do at the same spot. Oh, it was Billy's grave! She saw it all: Billy was not her child; Tobias could not act as he did and she Billy's mother. She hurried home as fast as she could, and then she gave up romance; she burned every sickly sentimental novel she had, and the very extravagance of this fancy had appealed to her long ago as sympa

thetic when her grief was wild and drearily illogical, when she was a poor mother whose only child was newly gone from her. She took the laudanum bottle from the closet and hid it in her bosom. All the tales she had read could not keep agony from her, but they could exert their influence to the very last; she would keep the laudanum until Christmas day, the anniversary of Billy's death, and then, ha, ha! she would die then, and Tobias would understand. Ridiculous as she reasoned, she felt that no viler accusation must be urged against her husband; she had known him too long for that. She saw him come home from the churchyard; full of her purpose, she let the night come down, and the next morning, the day before Christmas, usher its strength into this naughty, heedless world; full of this purpose, she heard her husband call out to a miserable-looking woman who passed the shop, "Remember to-night, Nancy," and the woman had nodded. "Tonight! To-night! Aha!" Stonily she went to Mrs. Simpson.

"Phoebe," she said, "come with me to-night; I want to follow Tobias."

She would have Mrs. Simpson along as a witness, for now she meant to follow her husband, and wherever he went there to quaff her laudanum.

"Jane," said Mrs. Simpson, "I have been true to you; I will go,--and Simpson shall go too; for lately I have not allowed him out of my sight, and he, too, shall behold whatever it is you have to show me."

Poor Simpson! he was but a meek man at best. Nothing passed the lips of Mrs. Growley that day, her last on earth; the tragedy of the bottle in her bosom was imminent. Tobias seemed preoccupied, if not a little happy; he wiped his eyes on a sheet of blotting-paper once, and did not discover his mistake. If he only knew that tomorrow he would be a widower, that is, that the Mrs. Growley in this shop would be no more! At dinner-time he seemed anxious to say something to her, but she withered him with a look. After dinner, without a word, he came around the table to her and stooped and kissed her upon the forehead. She started from him, angrily wiping the spot with her napkin.

"The kiss of the asp," she hissed, as he closed the door behind him.

But night came down, and the sounds of revelry in the streets were many and varied. Mrs.

though I do not know what ails her, and am wor

"Again, Adolph," said his wife, "I am astonished at you. Let this not occur again, or you shall know that all poor wives are not so helpless as Jane, here."

"Why this bickering ?" asked Mrs. Growley, as one appealed to. "Follow me. I think I know where to find him."

So they followed her. It was for all the world like a chapter out of one of the sweet bloodcurdling stories; they came to the gloomy street, even to the gloomy house. Into the entry they went, and up the stairs, and stood and looked into a large, well-lighted room. Ha! the mystery was about to be solved; they had reached the last volume of the romance. And what did they see? In the room were forty or fifty poverty-stricken women and children; in the middle of the room was a huge table upon which were eatables and drinkables, and warm clothing, and all manner of needful things, besides some toys and candies, and the quiet in the room was made up for by the Christmas noises floating up from the street. And there was Nancy and there was Tobias. But hush! there were lame children and sick children, big children, little children, pretty ones and ugly ones, and all manner of children; and their mothers were like them, only that their faces were sad and pinched and pathetic with suffering. What was Tobias saying?

died ten years ago, on Christmas day, I felt that God was cruel to take him upon his own Son's birthday. But I've got over that, though never until about three months ago, when I made a goodish bit of money one week, and saw in a flash that I, too, might do some little good on Christmas day, and maybe atone for my harsh thoughts of God by doing it-for whose sake, my dears ?"

"For Billy's sake," came the chorus once more. "Yes, for Billy's sake," said Tobias; "and so went and got you all together, little by little, one from here, one from there, and brought you to this room, which I rented for the purpose; and I've spared a little money each week and put it in the Bible on the page where I had written down my little child's death; and I have taught you some Bible-lessons and have tried to get you situations, and have succeeded oftener than not; and I have gone to orphan-asylums and homes for friendless children,-think of it! a child to be friendless, when Jesus loved them so !—and I have talked with the managers, and have taken little waifs from the streets to those places-and for whose sake ?”

"For Billy's sake," from the chorus.

"Right again! And to show you that the least of us can do some little good to our suffering fellows if love inspires us. So now you are here, and to-morrow is Christmas day, and

Tobias could not say anything more. But Nancy came up to him and touched his hand.

"You told me about Christ," she said, "and you got me a place in a hospital as nurse-was this for your dead baby's sake?"

"And," said another poor woman with a lame child, "you found a situation for my husband, and you sent a doctor to my little lame boywas this for your dead child's sake ?"

"And you sent us food and coal," cried others, "and you gave us kind words and money, although you are anything but a rich man. And was this for Billy's sake ?"

"Oh, dear people," cried Tobias, the tears rolling down his face, "suppose my little boy had lived and his parents had died-who would have cared much for him? Suppose I do all the little that I have done for the sake of the love I bear his dear mother, now my wife for twelve years, although there seems a cloud upon us now,

and

"A cloud!" said Nancy; "your wife cannot be a good woman not to love you."

'Hush!'' he said, gently; "my wife is a good, loving, true woman, and she cares for me. But I thought at first not to tell her of all this until tonight, as a sort of surprise; besides, she might have cried so much, remembering her little boy. But, somehow or other, she has seemed to misunderstand me, and maybe she don't see so much in me to care for as formerly; for she reads about fine men and heroes in novels, and I'm not much to look at, at best. But I do not mean to make you less happy! See, all these things here are yours; your names are on all the articles. Wait! It is five minutes to twelve; I know you will pardon me for keeping you up so late. Wait! In five minutes you will have the blessed Christ

mas day, and you must say, all together, 'Christ is born. Peace on earth, and good-will toward men.'"

Then he knelt upon the floor, and all the poor people knelt around him, and he held his face in his hands, and said, softly, "Billy, my little boy!" And there was a convulsive cry in the entry, and the door burst open, and the people were on their feet in an instant, for Mrs. Growley had caught her husband to her.

"Oh, Tobias," she cried, "Tobias, Tobias" That was all she could say, although she cried ever so hard.

And so did Mrs. Simpson, who kissed her own husband rapturously. And all the poor women crowded around them. And Mr. Simpson shook hands with Tobias's coat-tail, while Mrs. Simpson fainted among the candies.

"Oh, I understand it all, I understand it all!" sobbed Mrs. Growley; "and, oh, my husband, forgive me! I am not good enough for you,—I am a cruel woman. I have been a dead woman; but now

"Christ is born!" said a solemn voice, and Nancy stood beside her, and the clock was striking, and Christmas day was here! And gentle understanding was born with "good-will and peace toward men," such as all the romances in the world could not possibly describe.

On a starlit night of September, both pleasantly warm and pleasantly cool,-in fact, one of those delicious autumn evenings when no one has any complaint to make concerning the weather, and just after an impressive evening meeting in the worship of God by a service suited to all sects, denominations, and creeds,-we gazed out of the chapel window on a sight wondrous and strange. Some three-score or more of gentlemen were filing out into the evening air, chatting, joking, and laughing in such a good-humored, friendly way, that we could not help wondering what might be the moving cause for such genial intercourse. So different from the outside world; for they were filing out into a broad courtyard scrupulously

clean, beautiful, and adorned with circlets, here and there, of flowers, yet entirely separated by solid walls from the busy hum of outer life. And very odd it seemed to us, when chairs, benches, and tables were brought into requisition, and the bright lights of cigars were dancing about like fire-bugs among the different parties or groups,some at their dominoes, and some more congenial spirits telling their experiences or spinning yarns,

that there should be such an entire absence of caste distinction, and that such genuine social democracy should prevail among these men.

Greatly impressed with the novelty of the position and the incidents which gave rise to our wonderment, we addressed a little gentleman

below."

We had strolled out together, as he said this, to obtain a closer view and to mingle in the animated scene. It was then that we noticed, for the first time, the absence of wine or liquor of any kind. Dominoes were being played without a stake, and merriment ran rampant without the aid of a stimulant. Merriment, indeed, seemed to be the order of the day, and we especially noticed the fact that the young man chaperoning us was considerably infected with the spirit of good humor, and seemingly possessed of the wonderful faculty of listening appreciatively to several jokes at the same time.

"And do you mean to say," we asked, "that all these well-dressed men are inmates of the Home ?"

"Inmates or graduates, every one of them, both officers and men ; and your question suggests a little incident," he went on to say; and we may mention here that we found the young man possessed of a fund of happy incidents, many of which he related to us during our brief visit, but a few only of which we shall have space to rehearse in our article. "A party of ladies," he said, "were visiting the Home, when, after having been shown the library, the chapel, and other parts of the buildings, one of them, while looking rather curiously out upon this very scene, exclaimed, 'Oh, sir, we've seen enough of all these things; won't you please show us the drunkards.'” Laughingly, he continued, "You see she took us all for the board of directors!". With this, our friend went off into a very hearty laugh, in which we joined, both ending in a hearty guffaw, when he concluded by saying, "She thought all

Desiring to obtain some more profitable information concerning this institution, we bid our young friend a "good-evening," and joined a staid and rather sad-looking gentleman, who, we had observed, mingled less freely with the others. He took us at once for a fellow-inmate, an impression which we did not deem essential for our purpose to remove. In the course of his conversation he informed us that his had been a very bad case, and that he had been kept secluded from the public rooms and the society of the Home for several days. "And I thank God for it!" he exclaimed; "for, when a man has lost all self-control, he ought to feel thankful that he has friends to control him kindly-mind you, I say kindly-until he gets to be himself again." A dim perception that our friend had been somewhat out of his mind began to dawn upon us. In answer to our question as to how he had been treated while thus secluded, he replied: "They give you a non-alcoholic tonic of some kind, instead of liquor, as in the hospitals, together with care and sympathy, -two medicines, my friend, that you won't find in the Pharmacopoeia, nor always even among your own kindred, especially if yours is a drunkard's home. Even if you should have it there, they are very apt to lack in the judgment and experience essential to your rescue and restoration to your proper self and being."

Here we were interrupted by our young friend before mentioned, who proceeded, without much ceremony, to relate what had just transpired on a bench beyond us. "Jones, an ex-temperance lecturer, and one of the kind who thinks there is too much religion in the temperance cause, and Baggy, who is just out of the infirmary, are sitting over there together," he went on to say. "Jones is wondering what he will do when he goes out into the world again, to make a living. Says Baggy, who, I believe, is the most melancholic and worst used-up specimen ever within these walls, Why, Mr. Jones, I'll tell you a good thing to do go to lecturing again, and carry me along to exhibit as a horrible example.'' sad-looking companion found a smile to spare on this, and the smile and the contagious merriment of the little merrymaker seemed to unlock the doors of his communicativeness, as he resumed :

"I was going on to say, sir; now, when a party commences thus, it is a good thing to take out your watch and note the time," which we did, and think it had the effect of confining him to some of his best points. But before we rehearse either the grateful feelings or philosophical reflections of this sober companion, on the quips and anecdotes of the curious young fellow who thus spent his leisure in laughing away care, it might be as well to state, for the benefit of the reader, that we were in the Franklin Reformatory Home, of the city of Philadelphia, an institution for the permanent reformation of those inebriates who desire it,—an institution which has already been the means, in its brief existence of half a score of years, of permanently reclaiming hundreds of despairing inebriates, and which is now recognized all over the world as the pioneer enterprise in this direction,-an institution which, by the grace of God, is beginning to practically stem the overwhelming tide of drunkenness, poverty, misery, and crime, each in its turn the sequence of the other.

"You asked me to tell you something about the infirmary," our friend continued. "Well, it is nothing more than a bedroom, furnished comfortably but plainly, so that dirt or violence does as little damage as possible. It has grated windows, and a heavy door that bolts outside. It is therefore proof against a man breaking out for liquor again while the passionate craving is still upon him. But no man is, or ever was; locked up here against his will when he was sober and reasonable. When he voluntarily agrees to rest here under control, while realizing during a few lucid moments that it is his only hope, of course, when he becomes delirious, he is kept here against his will until his senses are restored. But as soon as his delirium has passed away he is liberated and has the freedom of the Home and its grounds granted him, and where, as you have witnessed, he will be offered the hand of fellowship by all he meets, and who have undergone a like experience with himself. And we are all ready to thank God that we have come to the Home. After dwelling here for a week, or until his health is in a measure restored, he can go about his ordinary avocation, but returns at night, and while herethrough the religious, the moral, the social, and the physical influences employed in the management-he is temporarily reformed, and there are

hundreds of bright examples in this city, country, and foreign lands even, who can testify that they have been, through the grace of God, permanently

reformed.

"My friend," continued the gentleman, solemnly, "it saves a man's self-respect to know that he gave himself up to the treatment of the Home, which is neither a prison nor an asylum, of his own accord; and you ask me how they treat him while his liberty is restrained? Well, a considerate watchman is placed near him day and night lest anything should happen ill; his meals are specially cooked, and composed of such things as are palatable to the sick and easy of digestion; while at various times he is visited by the superintendent, the physician, or the nurse, who, in quiet, soothing tones, ministers to the misery of the despairing heart or the tortures of the disordered and delirious mind." Here our friend became silent for awhile, his memory seemingly recurring to those dark days of hideous waking dreams or sleepless nights when he was the miserable victim of his drunken phantasies. Suddenly starting to his feet, he exclaimed: "I did not come here merely to get over a drunk,—that is not what this institution is for, but to permanently reform, and, with the help of God and friends whom he has sent, I believe it is done through the influence of this Home."

We were inclined to believe with him that in his case it was done. The earnestness of his speech and manner had in them that genuine something which we sometimes call the "true ring.”

Several times since we have visited the Home, making the acquaintance of its officers and many inmates, and we could lengthen this article to an almost indefinite extent with what we heard and saw,-things that we had never before seen or dreamed of. On one occasion we remember being much impressed by hearing one after another of a group of ten or twelve relate some short experiences, which would end substantially thus: "Yes, gentlemen, rum is a terrible thing," or, "rum is, indeed, a damnable thing," and we found that this condemnation was shared in by every man in the place. One of the parties in this group exclaimed, with much irony: "All drunkards are good fellows, it is said. I tell you what, boys, they earn this reputation by wasting their money over the bar, treating an impecunious friend or