be, if we have our way, very few indeed to
praise—this little friend came tripping along to
the gravel walk from the gate to the house, and
trying to look over the mignionette-box at our
open window (at which we were proving, by
statistics, that the ruin of Manchester was only
a question of years, unless we built our houses
flat for the future, and reared cotton crops,
under glass, upon them), called to us. We
dropped all our figures within, to look upon the
neatest and most convincing little figure without.

Mr. Marbell had just passed, walking as fast
as ever, but little Gussy was not with him. To
work went the brains of both us. We called to
mind, looking very seriously indeed at each
other, the dry lips and the hectic flush of yes-
terday. The little figure had a very grave head
upon it now. We watched anxiously on the
morrow; on the third day more anxiously still.
On the third day Mr. Marbell passed, walking
slower than usual. There was some heavy,
bulging object in his coat-tail pocket—the very
coat-tail upon which Gussy's eyes had been fixed
so long. We jumped to the right conclusion—
the bulging objects were bottles of physic for
little Gussy.

Upon that straw palliasse in the empty room
lay Mr. Marbell's little Spartan. Doctors'
grave, pale faces were shaken over the thin
limbs, and watched the weird brilliancy of the
boy's eyes. He was hardened—hardened against
all the iron trials Mr. Marbell had provided for
him in after days. Those little shoulders would
never overbear a neighbour. The soul lying
here, still in bondage, was not, we know, steeled
yet. The outstretched arms of an invisible, dead
mother were over this straw palliasse, and were
about to clasp little Gussy. Little Gussy, who
repines not; whose glassy eyes fall kindly upon
the rude parent, whose brutal theory has cast
him upon a child's death-bed; the rude parent,
who, within his memory, has never kissed him.

We shall never forget little Gussy's funeral.
It is well the police were there, or Mr. Marbell
had not been alive now to tell any friend, who
may drop in to take a glass of wine with him,
how his theory of making children "rough it"
failed in Gussy's instance.

The baby's place is upon its mother's knee;
the child's place is between its father's knees,
whence it may look up into his eyes, and sun
itself in their kind glances. There are theories
without number developing elaborate systems of
juvenile culture. There are gentlemen in white
neckcloths we know of, who believe that model
men may be built up like any engineering
models, by strict rule, by hours of study exactly
measured, by the reading of ponderous moral
treatises. So Mr. Marbell believed Gussy
might be made a hard, successful man (and a
successful man was Mr. Marbell's beau-ideal of
humanity) by rough usage, a beggar's cupboard,
and a tramp's out-door experiences. But, we
own, as it is our pleasure to believe many
will own with us, that we are rather with Mrs.
Marbell, and with Rachel also. Our theory is
that of making ourselves the familiar friends
and most tender counsellors of children. The
world will harden them soon enough, but the
less the better, in our humble opinion.

A FRIEND IN A FLOWER.

THE Tasmanian Veronica is a beautiful shrub,
growing from two to five feet high, with spikes
of true Speedwell blossoms, identical in appear-
ance with the blue Bird's-eye Speedwell of hedge-
banks in England. It frequents wild rocky places
and the borders of mountain streams.

What joy it is in distant climes to meet
Some dear old Friend!
How the heart bounds the well-known face to greet!
Whilst crowding memories, both sad and sweet,
Their discords blend
In our soul's harmony of gladdest tone;
And gasping forth
The bliss-drowned words, we cry, "My dear! My own!"
Almost so felt I, when before me shone,
On foreign earth,
The blue-eyed Speedwell of my childish days,
As blue, as bright,
As when on hedge-row banks it met my gaze;
Although my darling here a form displays
Of growth and height
Maturer in their loveliness, as though
The baby-flower
I left at home, beneath its guardian-bough,
Had grown up since, and won but even now
Her beauty's dower
In its full wealth and glory. Thus, whene'er
I meet those eyes,
So blue and bright, a breath of English air
Seems wafted o'er me, and a landscape fair,
'Neath chequered skies,
Comes, like a vision, veiling out the truth
Of bare, gaunt trees,
Harsh rocks, deep glens, and dark ravines uncouth;
And in forgotten haunts of early youth
The exile sees
A girl—her hands and basket over-brimmed
With blossoms fair;
Foxgloves, and fern; white daisies, rosy-rimmed:
Lake-lilies, with their inner light undimmed;
And, on her hair,
Wreath'd bindweed's graceful leaves and silver bells,
With Bryony.
Each loved Home-flower some pleasant story tells,
Till one dear voice the whole fair dream dispels,
Recalling me
From English girlhood to the matron life
Of later years,
With change and trial, shade and sorrow rife,
Yet bringing, to the Mother and the Wife,
More joy than tears.

IN CHARGE.

DURING the course of a tolerably eventful life,
it has frequently been my luck to be "in
charge." Looking back through a vista of ten
intervening years, the words occur to me in
connexion with the Vine-street station-house
and the discoloured eye of a drunken and pug-
nacious cabman; but that was in my salad days.
Since then, I cannot count the number of my