Mr. Mackworth said that Laurry and
Jack—two sturdy brown creatures, ten
and eight years old—had better help Harry
to carry up the boxes, and that, as it
was nine o'clock, they need not return:
but Mary looked so piteous and imploring,
and so earnestly begged that one box
might be opened then and there, and that
the boys might stay to help, that he gave
way with a smile, and settled himself in
his arm-chair to see what the box
contained. The first things to emerge were
the various small pieces of finery which
Mary had bought for her sister; nothing
very costly, but dainty trifles which Cilla
was known to prize: a pair of kid gloves, a
collar and cuffs of the latest fashion, a few
bright ribbons, and such like feminilities, at
sight of which the slight, pale, golden-haired
girl coloured with pleasure, and Mary's eyes
sparkled with pride and love. Then came
Mrs. Mackworth's gift, the warm serviceable
shawl which Mary hung over her mother's
shoulders, and then drew back, admiringly,
watching the long, soft folds which hung
gracefully on the still elegant figure.

"You look so nice, mother dear," she said,
kissing the worn face which had once been
as lovely as Cilla's: " doesn't she now,
papa? And isn't the shawl just like herself
—so nice, and soft, and grey. I chose it out
of the heap directly." There was a laugh
at this: and Mrs. Mackworth returned her
daughter's kiss, as she assured her that her
rheumatic shoulders would be thanking her
all the winter through.

Laurry and Jack were made happy with
a ball and a peg-top: and Harry with much
real satisfaction took possession of the knitted
stockings in which Mary excelled. Then,
rather timidly, for all his children stood in
some awe of the curate, she laid her gift
upon her father's knee. Mr. Mackworth
put on his spectacles, and studied the title.

"My dear! This book has been my roc's
egg ever since it came out. But Mary, my
dear, this is a costly gift. Have you found
Fortunatiis's purse?"

"I'll tell you exactly how it was, papa."
And she related the history of her long vain
quest, and of the journey to Grueby's, and of
the little adventure which had there befallen
her. Everybody grew rather excited; and the
boys began to make a series of not too
brilliant jokes about the chivalrous unknown.
It was plain, Harry averred, that he had
fallen in love at first sight. Was Mary sure
that he had not hung on behind to find out
her address? Cilla joined in with small
witticisms, but ended by a little laugh and
toss peculiar to herself, and the remark:
"But it's of no use, Harry! This dear old
Goody won't make a heroine of romance!
Not in your line, is it, Polly?"

"Ah! if it had been you now, Cilla!"
cried Mary, laughing.

The curate, awaking from the study of
his new possession, and becoming alive to
the fact that his children were talking
nonsense, ordered the little boys off to bed, and
suggested that Mary's box might as well be
removed.

As she stooped to close the lid, she ex-
claimed, " Here is this mysterious brown-
paper parcel left at the bottom, and it had
not any of your things in it. Cilla, after all.
What can it be?"

She took it up, and was about to open it,
when the sound of little shrill voices floated
in on the frosty air, and the boys came
tumbling down in extraordinary deshabille,
to beg that they might stay up to hear the
school-children singing Christmas carols.
There was a rush to doors and windows,
and Mary threw the parcel upon the table,
and thought of it no more.

That was a delightful evening; and the
midnight chat with Cilla was delightful
too. But when Mary had insisted on the
weary, eager girl ceasing her chatter and
going to sleep, she herself lay awake for long
hours, and her thoughts were not pleasant
companions. Home was more dear, home
faces were more beloved than ever; but coming
to it all with a fresh eye and a matured
mind, she saw, as she had never seen before,
how the whole family was groaning under
the heavy pressure of poverty.

"But that, at all events, I'll see to,"
thought she; "while I am at home Cilla and
the dear mother shall always have
something that they can eat: but how will it be
when I am gone? Well! sufficient to the
day is the evil thereof, and I have six whole
weeks to spend at home." And comforted
by this thought, Mary Mackworth slept
soundly on this first night of her return.

MR. CHARLES DICKENS'S FAREWELL
READINGS.

ME. CHARLES DICKENS will read on Saturday,
March 20, and Monday, March 22, at Manchester;
Tuesday, March 30, St. James's Hall, London; Wednesday,
March 31, Sheffield; Thursday, April 1, and Friday,
April 2, Birmingham; Monday, April 5, Tuesday,
April 6, Thursday, April 8, and Friday, April 9, Liverpool;
Tuesdays, April 13, 27, May 11, and 25, St.
James's Hall, London.
All communications to be addressed to MESSRS.
CHAPPELL AND Co., 50, New Bond-street, London, W.