"Jem's the man that lives here. He'll be home to-morrow. You are going to sleep with him. I don't know whether he likes boys, or not; but, I guess, he won't be particular."

I wanted to ask more, but was afraid; when, after smoothing down the bed, she pointed to a red chest of drawers, and told me to "put my clothes away in the lowest; any time, not to night;" then, bidding me sleep like a porpoise and be a good boy, she left the chamber.

"Sleep like a porpoise! I wonder if she knows how porpoises sleep!" I muttered to myself, as her steps were lost in the distance. On casting my eyes around the room, I spied several coarse pictures pasted up on one side of the partition; I hastened to make them out; but the fading light only served to show the outlines of General Washington, whose figure was well known to me, by two pictures which I had already seen of him. The pictures somehow gave me great delight; they seemed home-like, and I set about wondering who pasted them "Oh, if it's only Jem!" and the very

up.

thought gave me a fellow-feeling for

him.

At first I did not like to lie down in the strange, old wood-house chamber, all alone, and so far off from the rest of the family. I contrasted it with the night before; only the night before; in Mrs. Gray's best chamber, under her beautiful white counterpane, with the beautiful face of St. John looking down upon Henry and me, like a good angel watching over us.

"What is to become of me?" I cried aloud. I wanted to scream "Mother! Father! Henry! Agnes!" Oh! could not some of them, could not one of them hear me? The scalding tears would come: they came thick and fast. What shall I do?" bling on to the bed.

"What shall I do? I cried aloud, tumAfter a little while, I

got up again and kneeled down to pray. Henry's words in the morning came forcibly upon me. "I will mind Henry," I said; "Henry is such a good boy; and it will be minding mother, too."

After this duty was done, a duty always enjoined by our mother, both by her example

and instructions, I again jumped upon the bed; and, although it seemed as if I had no heart to sleep, sleep came unawares; and before long, I dare say, I was fairly, though unwittingly obeying the injunction of my aunt; though, whether she did really know how porpoises slept, I never was able satisfactorily to ascertain.

First Week at Aucle Bugh's.

THE next forenoon, my uncle gave me my choice, to go down into the field with the men and boys, or stay and do chores about the house, and matters and things. chose the latter.

get acquainted with Upon the whole, I

After bringing in some brush, to kindle a fire in the oven, setting out the milk-pans to dry in the sun, and feeding the four little pigs, I strayed away into the sittingroom, in hope to get sight of a book. There was an ostrich egg-shell under the glass, and two peacocks' feathers waving over the top of it, which served to interest me for a while, recalling all I had read about ostriches and peacocks, and making a little talk between my aunt and myself. Ostrich egg-shells and peacocks' feathers, but nothing like a book met the eye. Then I strolled into the barns, climbed up the

hay-mow, examined the stalls, wishing, all the time, in my heart, for Henry. "If Henry were only here! If Henry were only here!"

While striving hard to drive away dull thoughts, by swinging on a beam in the new barn, a man stalked in with two flails on his shoulder. He stopped on seeing me, and asked, "Who is this?"

"Hugh Fisher," I answered.

"Not old Hugh Fisher," he said, his lips puckering with a smile.

'He's my uncle. I came to stay with him. My mother is-dead!" It was hard to say it.

"Shake hands, Hugh, then," he said, in a friendly tone. "I know something how to feel for you. I lost my mother, about your age;" and seizing my hand, he gave it a feeling grip. From that moment, I felt that I had a friend, though who the man was, or where he came from, I could not tell. His coarse, blue, home-spun shirt covered a tall, lean, awkward body, with a face pitted by the small-pox, and shaded by long, grizzly hair. In spite of a personal