'Weel, my doo; is your heid ony better?'

'Na, it's sair, sair. Is faither hame yet?'

'He's no come yet, Norrie, but he'll no be lang. Hae patience awee,' murmured the mother, going to the bed where the boy lay, and gently chafing his temples. 'Does that ease the pain, Norrie ?'

'Ay, mither; ye've a saft haun-saft, saft,' said the boy dreamily, evidently enjoying the kindly friction of his mother's hand. After a little while, he said:

'Mither!'

'Weel, Norrie ?'

'I'm awfu' hungry.'

'God help us! there's no a bite in the house;'

VOL. II.

B

and the tender mother broke down with a great sob, though she tried to hide her tears from the pale suffering child. Yet the little fellow either saw or guessed the agony of his mother, for he immediately added:

'Dinna greet, mither-dinna greet; I'm no saé bad either; I've been waur. Maybe faither 'll bring hame something.'

'Ay, dearie, I hope sae,' said the mother soothingly, hoping almost against hope, for she really could not tell whether her husband would bring home either money or provisions. This weaver's wife was a sensitive little woman; and she had suffered much in struggling, in concert with her husband, Jamie. Campbell, to keep the wolf from the door. In the present state of trade this was sometimes a wholly impossible feat. Husband and wife often fasted for one and two days at a time. But the hunger gnawing at their own hearts was surpassed by the agony of seeing their two children, Willie and Norman, almost famished; for although the parents contrived to reserve or procure small supplies for the boys, yet what they did get was rather a mirage of food than a solid reality, and only mocked the boys into keener hunger. A more piercing anguish, however, was eating at this tender mother's heart. Her younger child, Norman-called by the fond diminutive of Norrie-was slowly dying of some brain dis

ease, induced by a fall, in which his head had got a violent blow on the hard pavement. There was actually, as both parents knew, no hope of preserving the boy's life; and there he lay, this cold December night, which happened to be Christmas, complaining that his head was 'sair, sair;' now dozing a little, and then waking up, and telling his mother that he was awfu' hungry.' Well might the good mother sob, and sway her body to and fro, and think that this was the crowning trial of her life. Under the soothing passes of his mother's hand the boy slid into a sort of waking sleep, in which he kept up a low dreamy murmur. After a short time he started,

opened his eyes, and muttered,

'What's that?'

'Naething, Norrie; ye've been dreamin'.'

'I heard a singin'-whaur's Willie ?'.

'See; he's lyin' on the hearthstane asleep, waitin' on his faither.'

Norrie raised himself on his elbow, with the assistance of his mother, and looked at Willie, who lay curled up before the embers of a fire. Although ragged, and somewhat pinched, Willie was nevertheless a picture for a painter. Never a prince slept so soundly, in spite of hunger; for, like his brother, Willie was hungry, and had lain down to wait the coming of his father, with possibly something to eat. Nature, taking pity on him, had fanned him

into sleep with her tender beneficent wing; so that, for a space at least, he was shut invulnerably from poverty and hunger and wrong. He was a boy of eleven, naturally round-faced, with thick, yellow, curly hair, which ringed his head like a golden halo. An artist would have called him a beautiful boy. Yet here was his mother hanging over the sickly little Norrie in a swelling passion of fondness and grief. Willie might live, but Norrie would diethat was the difference between them; and in the affection of the mother the dying child was the lovelier of the two. She was right; for this young spirit, who would have been a bright mortal here had he lived, was in the springtime, and near the bloomtime, of eternal beauty. Norrie lay back on his pillow and sighed.

'Mither, Willie's guid an' bonnie; but he'll no play wi' me ony mair, or gang wi' me to the Green to pu' the gowans and see the sogers.'

'O, whisht, Norrie; dinna speak that way. Wait till the guid days come roun', and ye'll maybe get ye're fit on the gowan yet.'

'I canna wait, mither,' said the boy, looking up wistfully; didna ye tell me we maun a' dee?'

'Ay, Norrie; we maun a' dee at the Lord's time -the Lord mak us fit to dee.'

Come here, mither,' said the boy, after a moment's silence; and as she bent down and kissed his