"All right, all right," he replied; "we
shall not lose the whole." The apparent
reserve in this answer was a quality the old
man could not help; for it had become an
instinct with him to keep back little amounts
and set them to the credit of his stocking.

Every eight or ten years my ancient gave a
dinner to the children he had had by his first
wife. His second wife, on every such occasion,
after a few years of coaxing, did her
part with a good grace. The large dishes
and plates were taken from their place of
almost eternal rest upon the shelves, and the
farm cookery performed its best, for the old
dame knew that a day might come when it
would be worth her while to have been civil
to her husband's heirs. It was in my time
that this day did come.

Every one knows that people in these country
places are more likely to fetch a doctor for
the disorders of their cows, their horses, or
their asses, than for any of their own. My
friend acted in this spirit, and having
contracted an ailment in one of his toes, begotten
by perpetual uncleanliness, inflammation
extended, deepened into gangrene, and at last
caused death. The old man's death was sudden
enough to disappoint his wife in many
plans for the securing of possessions to
herself. She was dispossessed of the chief part
of the estate; but, thanks to her friend the
notary, she had reserves of house and land.
Moreover it was said that she carried off by
night some earthen pots which did not contain
cream, or wine, or water.

At this period, of course, my residence upon
the farm came to an end; but, some time afterwards,
I paid a visit to the place. The miser's
son had altered it entirely. The approaches
were quite clean, the road to it was
macadamised, and bordered with a solid causeway.
The doorway to the farm was new, of oak.
studded with large pentagon-headed nails,
Of the old buildings I found nothing left
except the spacious barns. The stables
contained good drains, the cattle stood over fresh
litters. Order, liberality, and prudent
economy, were visible in all the arrangements.
Implements were in excellent condition;
tools were well polished; there was a
clear spring of water in the yard, and the
house had clean windows. As for the house
itself, it was both simple and elegant,
constructed on a plan now common in such cases,
that reminds one of our country railway
stations. The adoption of arches and pillars
made of iron, of brick for the walls, and of
zinc or slate for the roof, gives to the residences
of many of the small French proprietors an
appearance of convenience and comfort which
is not visible always in the villas of the rich.

While noticing this change I was accosted
by a fine young man of about five-and-thirty,
with whom I had no difficulty in renewing
previous acquaintance. He took me to see
his threshing machines, talked about the
distillation of beetroot, and showed me improvements
which made it impossible for me not to
suggest comparisons with what I had before
seen on the same spot.

"It is well," said the young farmer. " My
father was a prudent man, but one of the old
school. He made the funds. I have only to
use them. If I have profited much by his
economy, I owe that to the counsels of a wise
friend who has joined me,—my wife's father."
When I was introduced to this wise friend,
his animated and contented features did
indeed contrast with those of the man whom
I had seen as a debtor in the miser's clutches;
nevertheless, it was the same man, and the
girl whom I had on that day seen with him
was now the young man's wife.

A good wife too. Her house was full of
quiet, order, freshness. Her tables were well
washed, her floors well rubbed, her dressers
piled with plates and dishes tastefully chosen,
and her solid house furniture had also a
touch or two of elegance added to its solidity.
The woman herself—none the worse for having
owned a watch and worn shoes made in
Paris—sat at a window looking out upon a
well-stocked flower garden; she was neatly
dressed, and had her hair carefully gathered
up under one of the high caps peculiar to the
district. Happy children sat about her; boys
in blue blouses and strong leather shoes;
girls busy over the needlework, which
employed them when they had no other work
on hand. Through an open door that led into
the kitchen I could see a plump maid with
bare arms preparing dinner with the cleanliness
that makes the meal a delight to
partake of. I gladly agreed to stay and
take my dinner at the farm, wishing much
that I could yield myself up to the wishes of
these people and become their lodger.

ASPIRATION AND DUTY.

OH, what is earth to those who long
  For higher, holier, nobler things?
I'd soar aloft on burning song
  Amid the rush of spirit wings!

But hush, proud heart! While here below,
   At Duty's call fulfil thy fate,
And humbly, onward, upward go—
    So shall thou enter heaven's gate!

THE CHILDREN OF THE CZAR.

A BOOK, written by Ivan Tourghenief, was
published at Moscow in eighteen hundred
and fifty two, of course in Russian, and has
since been translated into English as Russian
Life in the Interior, or the Experiences of a
Sportsman; and into French under the
modified title of Mémoires d'un Seigneur Russe.
We have just laid down the latter version,
and are so impressed with the truthfulness of
its delineations, that an irresistible temptation
arises to scatter broadcast, by means of
our columns, a few of the sketches which it
gives of Russian life. Some of these are