widow experience a feeling almost approaching to hope, as she read courage and firmness on every feature of the face of her only son.

From that time Quintin was no more a child. He seemed to think it incumbent on him to fill the place of his dead father; he went regularly to work at the forge, which had been taken by a kind-hearted neighbour, and Quintin's skill and dexterity atoned so much for his want of muscular strength, that he received good wages for a boy. These he regularly brought home; and no merchant ever told over the gains of his Indian vessels with more delight, than did Quintin count over the few pieces of silver into his mother's lap. There is a sweetness in the gains of labour which no gifts, however rich, can bestow; and Quintin often thought that the bread which was bought by his hard-earned money tasted better than any other. It might be that his mother thought so too; and when he stood beside her-Quintin now considered himself too old and manly to sit on his mother's knee-the smile returned to her face as she noticed his sturdy hands and cheek embrowned by labour, and said he was growing so like his father. No other eye would have traced the very faint resemblance between the honest but coarse features of the poor blacksmith, and the intellectual countenance of his son.

Quintin, after his father's death, occupied his leisure hours no more with the toys and trifles of his own manufacturing, in which he had before so much delighted. He would not waste a moment, and as soon as he returned from the forge, he always set himself to assist his mother in her household duties, suffering her to do nothing that he thought was too much for her strength, which had been much enfeebled by grief. Quintin was become a very girl in gentleness and in domestic skill, for he thought nothing beneath him which could lighten his mother's duties. He even learned to spin; and during the summer evenings Gretchen and her son sat together at their work, often until long after the inhabitants of the few scattered cottages around them had gone to rest. But Quintin and his mother feared the long bitter winter, and worked early and late to put by enough to keep them from poverty during the biting frost of their climate. Still, while they feared and took these precautions, they did not despair; for they knew how sorely such a feeling cramps the energies of even a strong mind, and thereby induces the very evils which are dreaded. So Quintin's hopeful spirit encouraged his mother, and they worked on, patiently waiting until better times should come.

IV.

THE GOOD ANGEL.

It was on a cold dreary February day that a boy came through the churchyard, where the poor, who had no storied epitaphs, nor

white marble shrines, awaited in peace their resurrection from clay. The boy was thinly and poorly clad, and his face and bare hands were blue with cold. He walked slowly, in spite of the chilliness around him; for his spirit was very heavy, and his steps refused to move as those of one who carries a light heart in his bosom.

It was Quintin Matsys, who was coming from his daily labour to a sorrowful home; for the unusual severity of the winter had drained their little store, and Quintin knew now, for the first time, what poverty and hunger were. He thought, in his simplicity, that he would come round by his father's grave, and say his prayers there, hoping that God would hear them, and send comfort. Quintin crept rather than walked; for his poor little feet were frozen, and sharp pieces of ice every now and then pierced through his worn shoes. He was thankful to have been all day in the warm shelter of the forge; but that made him now feel more keenly the bitterness of the cold without. He came at last to the little green hillock which had been watered with so many tears; it was not green now, but covered with frozen snow; not soft, but hard and sharp.

The mist of a coming storm was gathering over the churchyard before Quintin had finished his orisons. The boy could hardly distinguish the gate at which he entered, and was about to depart, when there rose up from a grave which he had not before noticed a white figure. It was slender and small; and Quintin's first thought was that an angel had been sent to answer his prayer. He was not alarmed; but knelt down again with folded hands, waiting to receive the heavenly messenger. But another glance told him that it was no angel that he saw, but a little girl wrapped in white fur, who came timidly to meet him. "Will you tell me who you are?" asked she, putting out from her mantle a warm little hand, which shrunk from the touch of Quintin's chilly fingers.

"My name is Quintin Matsys," answered the surprised boy. "You are very cold, poor Quintin, if that is your name. Give me your hands to warm them under my furs."

Quintin did so in silence.

"Where is your father?"

"Here!" said Quintin sadly, pointing to the grave. "My father has been dead a year."

"They tell me that my mother is dead too, because I never see her now. I sometimes come here to think of her. When my father is angry, I steal out of the house and come here, as I have done to-day. No one minds little Lisa."

And the

66 Lisa!-is your name Lisa ?" cried Quintin eagerly. "I had a sister Lisa once; but she was much older than you.' boy looked earnestly in the beautiful childish face of his new friend, as if to trace some slight resemblance to the sister he had lost, but remembered so well.

"I will be your sister Lisa!" exclaimed the little girl. "I like you-you look good." And she sprang up with a sudden impulse, put her arms round his neck, and kissed him. Quintin returned her affectionate embrace, and then asked her more about her father. He was a painter at Antwerp, and had been living near the village for several months-ever since his wife's death. "And now," said Quintin, "I must go home. My mother is ill, and I have stayed too long already; but I will not leave you here all alone, Sister Lisa ;" and the word Lisa lingered on the boy's lips with the fondness with which we pronounce a beloved name, even when owned by a stranger.

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Why did you not tell me your mother was ill? I live close by; we will go away together directly." And she took hold of his hand and set out.

The two young friends had not gone many steps when Quintin turned pale, and sank on a grave.

"What ails you, Brother Quintin ?" asked the frightened child.

"I do not know," said Quintin faintly.

The little girl tried to encourage him; and then, with childlike reasoning, thought that something good would be the best resource. She drew from her pocket a sweetmeat, which she put in Quintin's mouth. He devoured it eagerly, and then, looking wistfully at her, he cried-" Have you another?" But immediately a crimson blush overspread his face. “I was wrong,” said he, "to ask; but I am so hungry. I have tasted nothing since yesterday."

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"Not eaten since yesterday!" exclaimed his compassionate little friend. "Poor Quintin !-no wonder you are tired! And your mother-has she nothing to eat?"

"I fear not indeed-unless some charitable neighbour has given her some dinner."

Lisa felt again in her pocket, and produced a biscuit, which she made Quintin eat; and then, as soon as he was able to go forward, she pulled him on. "I will go home with you, Quintin," said she. "Here is a fine gold piece that my father gave me; we will go and buy some supper, and take it together to your mother. I am very hungry too, and I will sup with you," she added with instinctive delicacy of feeling, wonderful in a child. Quintin yielded to her gentle arguments; and, laden with good things, he and Lisa entered his mother's cottage. She was sitting, exhausted, beside the fireless and cheerless hearth; a small rush-candle in one corner just showed the desolation of the cottage, for they had been obliged to part with one thing after another to preserve life. The two children entered hand-inhand. Gretchen looked surprised, but, from feebleness, did not speak.

Mother, dear mother," cried Quintin, "I have brought you a good angel, who has come to save us from dying of hunger."

"Here is

The child stepped forward and took her hand. plenty for supper; let me stay and share it. I am Lisa-little Lisa."

The similarity of name struck on Gretchen's ear; her mind was weakened by illness and want: she snatched the child to her bosom, crying out, "Lisa-my Lisa! are you come back to me again?"

The little girl, startled, uttered a cry. Gretchen set her down, and looked at her. "No, no-it is not my Lisa!" she said sorrowfully.

"I am not your own Lisa, but I will try to be," answered Quintin's friend, while the boy himself came forward and explained the whole. His mother was full of grateful joy. Without more words Quintin lighted the fire, while little Lisa, active and skilful as a grown woman, arranged the supper-not, however, before she had carefully administered some wine and bread to the thankful widow. All three sat down to a cheerful meal, Lisa holding one of Quintin's hands in hers the whole time, and watching him eat with an earnest pleasure which prevented her thinking of her own supper, and effectually contradicted her assertion that she was very hungry.

“You will not faint again, Quintin," she said at last.

The mother looked alarmed. "What has been the matter with you, Quintin? Have you, indeed, fainted from hunger? My poor boy! I thought you told me they were to give you dinner at the forge, and therefore you would not eat that piece of bread this morning?"

"Yes, mother; but-but-" said Quintin stammering, "they forgot all about it. I was not so very hungry, so I thought I would not come home until after dinner-time, that

"That your mother might have it all! My own boy-my dear Quintin, God bless you! You are husband, and son, and everything to me," cried the widow, folding him in a close

embrace.

Lisa looked on, almost tearfully. "I wish my mother were here to kiss me as you do Quintin!" she said.

"Have you lost your mother, poor child?" asked Gretchen, turning towards her. "Then come to me-you shall be my own little Lisa."

"I am Quintin's sister already, so we shall all be happy together," cried the pleased child, who would have willingly stayed, had not the thoughtful Gretchen told Quintin to take her in safety to her own home. The children parted affectionately, and Quintin felt that Lisa's loving and hopeful spirit had left a good influence behind upon his own. He went home with less gloomy thoughts for the future; his mother, too, had a happy look on her care-worn face, which cheered the affectionate boy. He listened to her praises of the sweet Lisa, and bade her goodnight with a lightened heart. Both mother and son felt the

day's events had shown them that there is no night of sorrow so dark to which there will not come, sooner or later, a bright and happy morning.

V.

THE FIRST PARTING.

Two years passed lightly over Quintin's head, bringing with them much happiness and little care. It seemed as if the meeting with Lisa had been the turning of their fortunes; from that time friends sprung up for the widow; and Johann Mandyn himself, the father of Lisa, helped Quintin to obtain work with the influence he possessed. But he was poor, and had little sympathy beyond his art, in which he placed his sole delight. Quintin and Lisa were inseparable in their childish friendship; the artist's daughter felt no scorn for the blacksmith's son, for she was too young to think of difference of station. Quintin worked at the forge, where he was invaluable, and his mother spun; so that the week's earnings were sufficient for the week's need, and poverty was no longer dreaded in the widow's now cheerful home. Gretchen became once more the stout, rosy, and goodhumoured Flemish dame; for time heals all griefs, even the bitterest; and it is well that it should be so. A long-indulged sorrow for the dead, or for any other hopeless loss, would deaden our sympathies for those still left, and thus make a sinful apathy steal over the soul, absorbing all its powers, and causing the many blessings of life to be felt as curses. As the bosom of earth blooms again and again, having buried out of sight the dead leaves of autumn, and loosed the frosty bands of winter, so does the heart, in spite of all that melancholy poets write, feel many renewed springs and summers. It is a beautiful and a blessed world we live in, and whilst that life lasts, to lose the enjoyment of it is sin.

Gretchen's restoration to peace after her heavy trials was in a great measure owing to the influence of Lisa. This child was one of those sweet creatures who steal into our hearts like a gleam of sunshine. Why this was so, it was impossible to tell: she was not clever above her years, nor fascinating through her beauty, which then was not conspicuous; but there seemed an atmosphere of love around her which pervaded everything and every one with its influence. It was impossible not to love

Lisa.

A good man once said to his daughter-" Why is it that every one loves you?" "I do not know," answered the child, except that it is because I love everybody." This was the secret of Lisa's power of winning universal affection. Her little heart seemed brimming over with kind words and good deeds. She was never seen gloomy or unhappy, because her whole delight consisted in indulging her love of bestowing pleasure on others,