for some time. I thought perhaps she would be in a better humor after having had so much to eat, and might possibly feel like talking with me. But I was determined not to speak first. So I sat still and tried to look as if I did not care whether she spoke or not, for I have observed that that is the surest way to make sullen and contrary people talk. But she never once opened her mouth, though I think I sat there a good hour and a half. At last it began to grow dark, and as I had quite a long walk to take, I knew I must go, or I should not get home in time for my own supper of milk.

"Good night, Ant," said I. "I have had a charming visit. I am very much obliged to you indeed for showing me your cow. I think she is the most wonderful creature I ever saw. I should be very happy to see you at my house."

"Humph," said my Ant.

H. N.

A

LITTLE AGNES'S ADVENTURE.

GNES lived in a small wooden house, alone with her grandmother. One day the old lady grew sick; she did not get up to do her usual work, but had the long curtains drawn around her high bedstead and hardly spoke.

In the evening the child sat for a long time reading, by the light of a candle, in Grimm's Fairy-book, about ghosts and witches and frightful rogues and wicked men. The warm air came through the window, and little flying creatures with it, — millers with powdery wings, and many other insects, attracted by the light. It grieved Agnes to see them lie, singed and struggling, upon the table, after passing through the flame; so she blew it out, and, leaning on the window-sill, looked out into the still night. Suddenly she heard her grandmother's voice, and stepping to the bedside she said, lovingly, "Do you want anything, grandmother?"

"I want the doctor, child."

"To-night, grandmother?"

"This morning; now."

"It is night, grandmother. It is the moon that makes the room so bright."

"Alas!" said the grandmother with a moan, "I thought the morning had come."

Soon afterwards, seeing Agnes still standing by her bedside, she took the little face between her hands, and kissing it said, "Good night, little Agnes. Go to bed and to sleep. It is late for you to be watching."

Agnes closed the curtain and began to undress. She unpinned the handkerchief about her neck and untied her little checked apron. Then she stopped; she did not quite like to go to bed and leave her grandmother so lonely all the night.

"Time seems so long when one is sick; I wish the doctor were here!" she thought: "perhaps he could do something to make her sleep."

She thought of the long way to the doctor's house: "To-morrow, early, I will go; but even then I may not find him at home; he goes so early sometimes to the sick people," she said to herself.

Suddenly she thrilled with excitement. "I might go to-night!" she thought. Her heart beat quickly; she stepped to the window and looked once more into the night. It was bright and lovely; the moon had risen, round and clear, and the pathway from the door was quite light, — not light as in the daytime, when the green grass and bright-colored flowers made it look gay in the sunshine, but with a quiet distinctness like that of a photograph.

Agnes went back to the bedside.

am going now for the doctor."

"Grandmother," she said, softly, "I

"Are you not afraid, my little Agnes?"

"The night is clear and the moon is up. Good by, dear grandmother." "Take your shawl with you, and do not stay long, my child."

"Indeed, I will come back as soon as I can."

Agnes stepped out into the path.

what a long and lonely way it was.

She knew the way she must take, and

She was glad that the moon was rising

instead of setting, that she might have its light to go and come.

On she went, past the apple-orchard, past, the evergreen grove, past the damp fields where the fireflies were dancing and shining, past the old school-house with its closed green shutters; and here the footpath ended in the broad, open road.

Agnes did not feel so easy in the road. She walked over the footpath every day on her way to school and home again, but she had seldom been on the public road, and never alone.

She went a little faster, and yet faster, until her walk was changed to a run; and she ran on until she lost her breath and was forced to sit down on a stone by the wayside to rest.

Just then something brushed across her hand, she sprang up and screamed. It was only a low, hanging branch of the tree under which she was sitting. She turned and walked on quickly; her heart beat fast; she thought of the horrible witches about whom she had been reading. At home, with her grandmother near, she had laughed to herself as she read; but here it was different.

The wind in the tree-tops made her shiver and flush with heat; the trees took strange and dreadful forms. Should she turn back and run home again? She stood still. Then the thought of her grandmother, so sick and waiting for the comfort she could bring, gave her fresh resolution. She looked neither forward nor back, but, keeping her eyes on the ground in front of her feet, sped along.

Presently she came to a spot where two roads crossed each other; she looked up then, to be sure which one she must take; and in the silence and clearness of the night she began to be ashamed of her fears. She walked on steadily, not in breathless haste, not in fearful delay, but calmly and steadily.

Into her mind, unbidden, came the words, "The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? the Lord is the strength of my life; of whom shall I be afraid?"

The words first sounded in her mind; then she sang them, softly at first, but soon with a louder voice and music in it; she was happy, and no longer fearful.

"Ah! here is the poplar-tree; now I am near the bridge," she said. And she smiled, for the great part of her walk was over; the doctor's house was not far from the bridge, on the other side of the river.

She felt cold; the wind was rising. She unfolded the shawl on her arm and wrapped it round her. It was darker, too; clouds had gathered, and some thin ones were already passing over the moon. She quickened her pace to escape the coming storm.

A great drop fell on her face; then another, and another. She could but just trace the line of the wall by the side of the road. She would have run, but the darkness hindered her.

Soon she heard the river as it swept under the bridge; heard it, but could not see it, for the light of the moon was gone. Slowly she went now, step by step, with the utmost care, stretching out her hands blindly before her. She felt so helpless in the darkness that tears rolled down her cheeks, and she was about to sit down because it was so hard to find the way, when suddenly she touched the railing. Gladly she took it for her guide, and, slipping her hand along upon it, stepped confidently on the bridge. She shut her eyes, for they ached, straining and staring in vain into the dark

ness.

A flash of lightning, followed instantly by a loud peal of thunder, made her tremble and cling to the railing. She had hardly time to think before a second flash showed her that she stood upon the brink of death. She was on the outside of the railing, - on a few planks which had been left projecting beyond it. Past the middle of the bridge there was no such projection; another step, and she would have plunged into the water.

Light as her hold had been a moment before upon the wooden support, it was close and clinging now. With a sick and fainting heart she turned and crept, O so cautiously! back to the road, where she dropped on her knees, weak and helpless.

After a few dreadful moments the dutiful little girl roused herself again to her task; rather, to choose between her tasks, for she knew not whether to turn and go home or to dare again the fearful river.

The rain came down heavily; and she was almost grateful for it, since in its rush and patter she could no longer hear the terrible rush of the water. She thought with longing of her home. She said to herself that her grandmother, if she could see her now, would surely call her back.

"Ah, if I should be drowned!" she thought; "that would be worse for grandmother than if the doctor never came."

And the brave little girl turned again in the darkness to the terrible river, and prepared once more to cross. This time she crept upon hands and knees; she dared not trust her feet. She went slowly and carefully, feeling with her fingers the wet boards to be sure of her safety, and shuddering when now and then a little crack between them reminded her of the river far beneath. At last she felt the muddy road at the other side.

The violence of the storm was over; the moon again showed its light; the little girl sprang upon her feet and turned in at the doctor's gate.

The doctor had been reading until a late hour that night, and he opened the door himself.

"Who is this?" he said. "What! little Agnes? Come in, child. How came you here alone?"

Then Agnes told him of her grandmother's sickness, and begged him to go to her. He whistled when he looked at her muddy dress; then called at the foot of the stairs, "Mrs. Ainsworth! will you come here a moment?"

And when his housekeeper came, in dressing-gown and slippers, he asked her to make little Agnes warm and comfortable while he prepared to go home with her.

Agnes wanted to say that she would rather go back now, wet as she was, than keep her grandmother waiting; but, though the doctor was a kind and gentle towards children, she felt strange and shy, and put her hand in the housekeeper's, without speaking a word. The doctor guessed her thought and answered it as if she had spoken.

man,

"The horse must be harnessed, my dear; so go with Mrs. Ainsworth. We will lose no time; we shall drive home very quickly."

The housekeeper led Agnes into the kitchen, and, telling her to sit down, went up stairs. Agnes looked up at the tall clock in the corner; it said half past one. She looked at the fire, carefully covered for the night, and began to shiver. Soon the housekeeper came back, and, sitting on the floor in front of the little girl, pulled off her wet shoes and stockings, comforting her while she dried the cold feet and drew on some great woollen stockings of her own and a pair of red and yellow carpet-slippers, much too large for the little feet, but warm and thick. Uncovering the fire, she set a soup-kettle upon it, and, taking off Agnes's wet clothes, wrapped her in garments of her own. In a short time the soup was warm, and Agnes, after eating some of it, felt stronger and happier.