among the rose-bushes sick to death, and
threatening to die unless Beauty married
him. But at the end of the two years, when
their contract was at an end, and when its
fulfilment had given him time to know Bessy
well, and to save the father through the child,
he besought Bessy to remain with him in the
same capacity, offering her munificent terms
and any degree of liberty she required as
regarded communication with her family.
Bessy stayed. She stayed two years; she
stayed three; she stays there now, to
witness, if I lie.

Not alone, however. It occurred to William
B., junior—the lad with the blue eyes and
fair hair—to grow up to be a tall young man,
and to fall violently in love with the pretty
little housekeeper. It occurred to his father,
instead of smiting him on the hip immediately,
or eating him up alive in wild beast fashion,
to tell him he was a very sensible fellow, and
to incite Bessy (we must call her Beauty
now) to encourage his addresses, which
indeed, dear little puss! she was nothing loth
to do. So Beauty was married. Not to the
Beast, but to the Beast's son; and Beauty
and William and the Beast all removed to a
pretty house in the prettiest country near
London, where they live to this day, again to
witness if I lie.

The Beast is a Beast no longer. Everybody
admits that he is not a Beast now;
some few are even doubtful whether he ever
was a Beast. He carries on the Ursine Lane
business (in partnership with his son) still,
and is a very rough-headed and rough-voiced
old man. But the rough kernel and rough
integument are worn away from his heart,
and he is genial and jovial among his
dependants. Charitable in secret, he had always
been, even in his most brutish times; and
you are not to believe (for Braddlescroggs
talked nonsense sometimes and he knew it)
that the old housekeeper, when she became
blind or bedridden, was sent adrift or to the
workhouse; that old John Simcox was not
allowed sufficient funds for his pipe and his
glass (in strict moderation) at the Admiral
Benbow; or that the two Misses Simcox,
when they married at last (after superhuman
exertions,) went dowerless. No. The Beast
remembered, and was generous to them all.

THE ANGEL'S STORY.

Through the blue and frosty heavens,
   Christmas stars were shining bright;
The glistening lamps of the great City
   Almost matched their gleaming light;
And the winter snow was lying,
   And the winter winds were sighing.
Long ago one Christmas night.

While from every tower and steeple.
   Pealing bells were sounding clear,
(Never with such tones of gladness,
   Save when Christmas time is near)
Many a one that night was merry,
  Who had toiled througli all the year.

That night saw old wrongs forgiven,
   Friends, long parted, reconcile;
Voices, all unused to laughter,
  Eyes that had forgot to smile.
Anxious hearts that feared the morrow,
   Freed from all their cares awhile.

Rich and poor felt the same blessing
  From the gracious season fall;
Joy and plenty in the cottage,
   Peace and feasting in the hall:
And the voices of the children
   Ringing clear above it all!

Yet one house was dim and darkened;
  Gloom, and sickness, and despair
Abiding in the gilded chamber,
  Climbing up the marble stair.
Stilling even the voice of mourning—
   For a child lay dying there.

Silken curtains fell around him.
   Velvet carpets hushed the tread,
Many costly toys were lying,
   All unheeded, by his bed;
And his tangled golden ringlets
   Were on downy pillows spread.

All the skill of the great City
   To save that little life was vain;
That little thread from being broken:
That fatal word from being spoken;
   Nay, his very mother's pain,
And the mighty love within her,
  Could not give him health again.

And she knelt there still beside him,
   She alone with strength to smile,
And to promise he should suffer
   No more in a little while,
And with murmur'd song and story
  The long weary hours beguile.

Suddenly an unseen Presence
  Checked these constant mourning cries,
Stilled the little heart's quick fluttering,
   Raised the blue and wondering eyes.
Fixed on some mysterious vision,
  With a startled sweet surprise.

For a radiant angel hovered
  Smiling o'er the little bed;
White his raiment, from his shoulders
  Snowy dove-like pinions spread,
And a starlike light was shining
  In a Glory round his head.

While, with tender love, the angel,
  Leaning o'er the little nest,
In his arms the sick child folding,
  Laid him gently on his breast.
Sobs and wailings from the mother,
  And her darling was at rest.

So the angel, slowly rising.
  Spread his wings; and, through the air,
Bore the pretty child, and held him
  On his heart with loving care,
A red branch of blooming roses
  Placing softly by him there.

While the child thus clinging, floated
   Towards the mansions of the Blest,
Gazing from his shining guardian
   To the flowers upon his breast,
Thus the angel spake, still smiling
   On the little heavenly guest: