up. And I should have given them to you before I went to college, only I thought I'd keep them till I came home on my first holiday. And then when I went to get them to give them to you, I felt so vexed not to find them."

Syl couldn't tell what to say. He seemed to be dreaming again. Only here were the bags! And, my lad," said his gran'da, “let me give you this."

66

you

"What?" said Syl, for he could see nothing. "This piece of wisdom," said his grandfather. "You'll not see it now, maybe, but will some day. It's this:-As far as ever you can, all through life, if you want to be on the safe side, spend none but your own money. Feed yourself and clothe yourself out of your own income. Whatever you do and be, in business or pleasure, Play with your own mariles.''

THE LITTLE DOOR.

"CHILDREN! Duty's the door,

;

You must enter it and go in There's nothing else to do before,

That is where to begin.

We must do the things we must
Before the things we may;

We are unfit for any trust
Until we can obey.

Do you say that's so easily done-
It's such a trifling affair!

It is almost over as soon as begun,
For that God can hardly care?'

So long as you linger and wait,
You are turning from His call;
It is because you are not great,

You think any duty small!
Just one at a time, and no more,
The nearest first to begin;

What matter how little the little door,

If it only lets you in."

MAYBE you never were in Manchester, were you? But you know it is a big, busy town. Sometimes the streets seem seem full of people, and everybody in a hurry. No room in the road for anybody else, and there is no time to stop and look round. If you don't move on you just get crushed off the causeway, and if you do move on you get well squeezed and scuffled. Elbows and umbrellas jostle against your sides and jerk against your ribs, and Market Street swarms with men and women, boys and girls. Some are buying, some are selling, and, on the pavement of the street, you can hear the horses stamping and cart wheels rumbling. The cabman shouts

and cracks his whip.

Cabs rush about at

runaway speed. And, while old folks and young folks are trying to cross over, omnibuses, if not standing still, are all running races here, there, and everywhere.

But listen! There go the city chimes. The Infirmary clock has just struck six. It will be time for the 'bus to start directly.

And now you could hear something else. It wasn't so sweet as the music of the chimes, though; because her voice was very hoarse, and she said she'd had brown titus' once. And, besides being hoarse, she hadn't any song to sing. She only had to shout-

"Second Edition! 'dishun! Paper, sir ?"

Mail or News! Seckund

That's Kit, a news girl.

Her longer name was

Kitty. Her cousin, they always called him Cribby; he sold papers too. Kit and Cribby They had to sell eight

always went shares.

dozen between them every day. What would happen if they didn't?

Well, they hadn't any mother. They lived with an aunt, and she made them turn out, whether it was warm or cold, to sell so many papers. And, if Kit or Cribby came home without selling up they would have to go out again. Then they got nothing to eat. No tea, no supper. Instead of warm supper they would get a leather strap.

"Seckund 'dishun! Mail or News! Paper, sir ?"

When Kitty said that, there was a man passing. She had just stopped, a bit away from the 'bus. But the man didn't buy one. Kit didn't mind it over much. She was used to it. Still she did want to sell her papers, I can tell you. She had a dozen yet. She stood a minute near a large, bright shop window. She had her papers under one arm, and her placard sheet in front of