that was necessary was car-fare and money for the incidental expenses of a trip to California. Long was a little vague in his ideas about the fare to California, but he had an idea that a hundred dollars would cover all the expenses of the trip. He was unusually curt in his replies to his mother's comments on the letter and the country it described, and remained silent all through the evening, retiring much before his usual bedtime. In response to his mother's anxious question if he was feeling well, he only kissed her, and replied, "Yes, mother; a little tired, that 's all." The next morning he had apparently recovered his usual spirits, and his mother was consequently much relieved.

Two or three days afterwards one of the villagers called out to Long, as he was coming home at night from work, "Say, Jim, don't you wish you was Deacon Brown?"

(6 Why, what's up?” asked Long.

"The old man's just got paid off for some early apples 'n a lot of other truck he sent to the city."

"How much'd he get?" asked Long.

"'Bout two hundred dollars, I guess. Enough to go on a six weeks' spree with."

These words set James into the same old train of thought. Two hundred dollars! More than enough to get his mother to California. Easy to get, too. Did n't he know all about Deacon Brown's house? Had n't he and Joseph Brown been boon companions till Joe died? Had n't they explored every nook and cranny of the old house? Did n't he know where old Deacon Brown kept most of his money—in the quaint, old, carved writing-desk in one corner of the living-room? Did n't he know that the catch on one of the windows of that living-room was broken, and the window never fastened, for the deacon said he 'd lived nigh onto sixty year, and that catch had been broken a good twenty year, 'n he had n't been robbed so fur 'n did n't expect to be? Didn't he also know that the deacon always turned checks and money orders into cash as soon as possible, saying that he preferred Uncle Sam's checks? Yes, he must have that money, or enough to send his mother to California with, anyway.

In the midst of his thoughts he was interrupted by a cheery voice, calling, "Well, Jim, my boy, how goes it?" and looking up he found himself in front of the deacon's orchard, and the deacon, who was gathering apples, calling to him. In the semi-darkness Jim perceived the old man's coat and vest hanging on a fence-picket in front of him. With a sudden start he remembered that the deacon carried his key-ring in his vest-pocket - a careless thing to do, his wife told him, but the deacon said he'd carried that key-ring thar for nigh onto forty year, 'n he had n't lost nuthin' so fur, 'n on the whole he guessed he would n't in futur'.

Long gave an equally cheery reply to the deacon's greeting, and leaning over the fence he exchanged the news of the day with the deacon, while he fumbled in the vest-pocket for the keyring. The darkness concealed his action, and the search was successful. Jim readily told the key to the writing-desk by its peculiar shape, detached it from the ring, and replaced the others. Then after a little more talk he sauntered away home.

The next morning, at the breakfast table, James said to his mother, "Do you remember what Uncle Reuben said about your going to California ?”

"Yes, my son. Why?"

"Well, I've been thinking it over. I've been working pretty hard this past year and I've laid by quite a little money that I'd been thinking of using toward paying off the mortgage, but I think now that I'll use it to send you to California with."

"James, what are you talking about? It is utterly out of the question.”

"Nothing of the sort, mother. I've had it all planned for some time.”

"But, my son, even if I should go, how would you get on without me?" said Mrs. Long, weakening a little.

"Oh, I should get along all right. The thought that you were getting strong and well would be enough alone to keep me going."

"Well, give me time to think it over," said Mrs. Long, and in the end she yielded to her son's wish and her own desire to become stronger. The whole population of the Corner turned out to see her off, and was heartily moved by the affecting parting between her and James.

It was two or three weeks before Deacon Brown missed his money. The key had been returned to its proper place before the deacon had noted its absence. When he did discover his loss he did not think the money had been stolen, for no signs of violence were discoverable on the writing-desk, and the deacon was firm in his belief that there was only one key "in the kentry" that would fit that desk. So the good man, who was very absent-minded, supposed that he had mislaid the amount somewhere, and lived in daily expectation of seeing it turn up in some unexpected place.

In the meantime, Turner's Corner was surprised at the change that had come over James Long. From being a hail-fellow-well-met, he became silent, taciturn, and gloomy. People set it down to his separation from his mother. "Jim always did set a heap of store by his mother," they said.

Had James Long not been by nature generous, open-hearted, with an almost abnormal sense of justice in regard to most matters, quick to feel and sympathize, his guilt would not have preyed on him so, and he would have been content at escaping without suspicion. As it was, after a vast amount of thinking, and figuring, and mental agony, he came to this conclusion: "No, I can never pay it back. Two hundred dollars might be easy for some people to repay, but for a man like me, a farm-hand, with a big mortgage on my house and land - no, I cannot do it. I know, unless I confess, no one will ever know that I took the money; but I must confess. I can't stand it any longer; and yet -oh, how can I confess? Yet I must!" And this last thought clung in his mind.

About eight o'clock one evening the door-bell of Deacon Brown's house jangled sharply, and the deacon, going to the door, found James Long there with a note in his hand. "Good even

ing, Jim," said the deacon.

"Good evening, Deacon. Here is a note for Mrs. Brown, that mother enclosed in a letter to me." As a matter of fact, the envelope addressed to Mrs. Brown contained another addressed to the deacon, in which Jim confessed his theft.

"Oh yes. Won't you come in and stay awhile, Jim?"

"No-no, thank you. I-I feel rather tired to-night." "All right. Good night."

"Good night." James Long turned away from the door and walked slowly down the gravel walk to the road. It was a splendid night. The air was crisp and bracing, the November moon rode high in the heavens, and in its soft radiance everything looked subdued and peaceful. Lights in the windows of the neighboring houses twinkled cheerily. The sound of a piano fell on the ear. It was a beautiful, happy world. And yet- and yet - James Long stood looking and listening for a time, then slowly moved on. In front of the Town Hall he paused again, and a mist came before his eyes, as he thought of the good times he had had there. He looked at the little schoolhouse, and the memories it conjured up brought a dry sob to his throat. He regained his composure, and walked on till he stood before his own house. Here he halted once more, and gazed long and earnestly at his home. Then he bowed his head on his hands and gave way to an uncontrollable burst of feeling. At length he recovered himself, and started off down Narrow Lane, at first at a brisk walk, and then he broke into a run. On and on he ran down Narrow Lane, until he came to an unbroken reach of forest, where he turned off abruptly and plunged into the woods, still rushing on and on, farther and farther from man, from home, and, he thought, from God.

The next morning the sun rose bright and clear on a smiling world. In a little glade in a forest the woodland denizens discovered a new and unwelcome sight. A few belated birds chirped above the spot; a bright-eyed squirrel peered at it from behind a tree; the wind sang a requiem through the branches of the pines; but the birds and the squirrels kept their secret well, for not until the snow had come and gone, and come and gone again, did man discover, among the leaves, with a rusted revolver by its side, a ghastly form, which cleared up a great mystery. W. M. SMAll.

Dickens as a
Novelist.

It is hard for the lover of Dickens to find, as he must if he takes the trouble to inquire, that the sale of that author's works is yearly decreasing. Each year hosts of new writers spring up, and some of the older ones are superseded. This fate seems to be slowly approaching Dickens, though there will always be some to whom the name is dear.

Critics tell us that Dickens is dull and uninteresting through at least half of the majority of his works; that no interest is awakened till a sea of details and description has been waded through. This may be true, but to an ardent admirer, even this characteristic has its charm. Once become accustomed to the author's style, and admire it as it may be admired, and its very complexity is a delight. The descriptions should not be plunged through as hastily as possible, in order to get at the heart of the story, but should be carefully read. When this is done, one becomes better acquainted with the quiet humor which constantly appears. The descriptions of the Pecksniff family in " Martin Chuzzlewit" are full of wit which may easily be passed over in a hasty reading; and who has not laughed over the love affairs of David Copperfield, and the trials of Dick Swiveller and the Marchioness?

On the other hand, Dickens seems equally successful with pathos. That person must indeed be hard-hearted who is not moved by the story of Florence Dombey, and thrilled with admiration at the grandeur of Sidney Carton. The wanderings of Little Nell are equally pathetic, and in "Nicholas Nickleby " the scenes at Dotheboys Hall are a mixture of humor and sadness.

It is often said that Dickens always exaggerates. Frequently, we agree; but surely not always. The scenes which pertain to the serious part of life are not exaggerated, but true to nature. Where is the exaggeration in Lizzie Hexam's grief for her father, or in the death of Little Paul? Those scenes which are overdrawn are not harmful in any degree, they are only grotesquely ridiculous.

In reply to the assertion that Dickens's own father was the original of Micawber, nothing can be said. This is a charge against the man, not the author. It is probable that the author's sense of humor overcame the man's family feeling. In a letter of the elder Dickens still in existence we find this proposal to a London firm. The writer was in debt to the firm mentioned to the extent of eighty pounds, or thereabouts, and sent his note for one hundred pounds, with a request that the firm cash the note, and return to him what remained after deducting the eighty pounds due them. He evidently considered that this proceeding would cancel his debt. Could anything be more Micawber-like? With such an original, Wilkins Micawber cannot, surely, be very greatly overdrawn.

It cannot be said that all of Dickens's works are equally good. He certainly fell below his own standard in some of his works. "Barnaby Rudge" is not worthy to be placed side by side with "A Tale of Two Cities," nor "Martin Chuzzlewit," with "David Copperfield." If "Edwin Drood" had been finished, it would probably take its place among Dickens's best works; and his best works are worthy to be placed among the best and greatest novels.

E. L. H.

Exchanges.

It is gratifying to notice that several of our recent prose and poetic contributions have received favorable comment from contemporary publications.

The University Beacon of Boston University contains some editorials, letters, and poems

which were submitted for the various prize contests recently held in that institution. These competitions brought out some good work, and the poems are particularly worthy of praise. The victorious editorial was entitled "The Present Revival of Napoleon " (not Mansfield's play), and the letter which won the first prize

Divinity School.