and a clean shirt," and so her busy days go by. And all get all that that noble soul can give them. Many a one has received there the first upward impulse to a new life, and found a before unknown hope and joy and peace. Every one who comes gets a hearing, and all who appeal to her credulity go down in her little book and are "looked up" by her helpers. I once asked her if she never reached the end of her resources. Oh, yes!" she said. "But then I write to some of my rich people, and tell them that I am in a hole, and that it is not my work, but the Lord's; and they respond."

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Mrs. Cook was born in Hull, England, in 1821. She and her husband started for this country with their three little children in 1847. The baby was one of the twentyfive persons to die on the ship during the tedious seven weeks voyage. Mrs. Cook had not learned patience in those days, and her grief for her child was immoderate and uncontrollable. Her husband died of cholera two years after their arrival.

To support herself and her two little ones,

she took in fine sewing. In that way she made some very rich and influential friends, the ladies for whom she worked becoming interested in the intelligent and philanthropic little seamstress. During that time she devoted two hours of each day to visiting the sick and suffering, making up for the time thus spent by working early mornings. and late nights. In Bellevue Hospital, where she was to be seen almost daily, she became known as the "Little Sunbeam."

She was never strong. When two years old she fell and received injuries from which she never recovered. Later in life she fell on the ice; and it is to those falls that she owes her long invalidism.

CARRIE D. MACOMBER.

From "True Stories of Heroic Lives." Copyright, 1899, by Funk Wagnalls Company.

THE MASTER-PLAYER

AN old, worn harp that had been played
Till all its strings were loose and frayed,
Joy, Hate, and Fear, each one essayed
To play. But each in turn had found
No sweet responsiveness of sound.

Then Love the Master-Player came
With heaving breast and eyes aflame;
The Harp he took all undismayed,
Smote on its strings, still strange to song,
And brought forth music sweet and strong.

PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR.

THE MIRACULOUS PITCHER

ONE evening in times long ago old Philemon and his old wife Baucis sat at their cottage door enjoying the calm and beautiful sunset. They had already eaten their frugal supper, and intended now to spend a quiet hour or two before bedtime. So they talked together about their garden and their cow and their bees and their grapevine which clambered over the cottage wall, and on which the grapes were beginning to turn purple. But the rude shouts of children and the fierce barking of dogs in the village near at hand grew louder and louder, until, at last, it was hardly possible for Baucis and Philemon to hear each other speak.

Ah, wife," cried Philemon, "I fear some poor traveler is seeking hospitality among

our neighbors yonder, and, instead of giving him food and lodging, they have set their dogs at him, as their custom is!"

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Well-a-day!" answered old Baucis; "I do wish our neighbors felt a little more kindness for their fellow creatures. And only think of bringing up their children in this naughty way, and patting them on the head when they fling stones at strangers!"

"Those children will never come to any good," said Philemon, shaking his white head. To tell you the truth, wife, I should not wonder if some terrible thing were to happen to all the people in the village, unless they mend their manners. But as for you and me, so long as Providence affords us a crust of bread, let us be ready to give half to any poor, homeless stranger that may come along and need it.”

"That's right, husband!" said Baucis. "So we will."

"I never heard the dogs so loud," observed the good old man.

"Nor the children so rude," answered his good old wife.

They sat shaking their heads one to an

other, while the noise came nearer and nearer, until, at the foot of the little eminence on which their cottage stood, they saw two travelers approaching on foot. Close behind them came the fierce dogs, snarling at their very heels. A little farther off ran a crowd of children, who sent up shrill cries, and flung stones at the two strangers with all their might. Once or twice the younger of the two men (he was a slender and very active figure) turned about and drove back the dogs with a staff which he carried in his hand. His companion, who was a very tall person, walked calmly along, as if disdaining to notice either the naughty children or the pack of curs, whose manners the children seemed to imitate.

Both of the travelers were very humbly clad, and looked as if they might not have money enough in their pockets to pay for a night's lodging. And this, I am afraid, was the reason why the villagers had allowed their children and dogs to treat them so rudely.

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Come, wife," said Philemon to Baucis, "let us go and meet these poor people. No