the empty box to both the girls at different times. What was to be done? I settled at last that Lucy should have this, and Mary wait for the next. They agreed to this; and I, hoping that the trouble was over, went back to my own room, taking care first, however, to assure the children that it was an oversight on my part, and that I would be cautious not to promise to give the same thing to both of them another time.

But my trouble was not over. I had not been halfan-hour in my room, before in came Charley, with very red eyes, which plainly showed that he had been crying, and sobbed out, O papa, Lucy has got that box, and you promised it to me.'

That unlucky box! By dint of cross-questioning Charley, and torturing my own memory, I came to the conclusion at last that I had positively given it away at three different times. Once to Lucy, then again to Mary, and afterwards to Charley.

It was a simple thing; but I was annoyed beyond expression, and, putting on my hat, I went to the next stationer's, spent a shilling on two similar boxes of matches, emptied them, and thus, as far as I could, redeemed my character for truth and uprightness.

I remember, once, going with a friend into a dozen shops, more or less, in London, and spending time that was valuable to us both, in search of some simple toy. I don't remember what; nor could we find what we wanted till we had tramped wearily from Cheapside to High Holborn.

'I would not have gone home without it, on any account,' he said, as he put it into his pocket. 'I promised to take one home to Bella.'

On another occasion, not long ago, on returning from a day's excursion on business to a neighbouring town, I was met with the inquiry :- What have you brought home for Ellen ?'

"For Ellen!-nothing.'

'What, not after your promise-poor child! 'Promise! promise!' said I, somewhat testily, I am afraid: 'I am sure I did not promise her anything.'

'Well, she thinks you did; and she has been say ing all day that she wonders what papa will bring her.'

But-ah, yes; I remember saying when I said good-bye, Shall I see what I can find for you at Ď—?' but the truth is, I forgot all about it. In fact, I hadn't time to think of it: I could not do all I wanted for myself.

Poor Ellen-three years old—she sobbed herself to sleep that night, thinking of papa's broken promise.

'You promised we should all go to D- some day,' I have been told lately more than once.

'So I did, Lucy, and so you shall; but I have not been able to perform my promise yet. You shall go some day.'

'It is a long while coming, some day is, I think, papa,' says Lucy.

Again, I say, parents should be careful in making promises, and careful not to break them when they are made.

We tell our children of the beauty of truth; we labour or should labour-to excite in them a detestation of all that is mean, cunning, or false; to inspire them with a spirit of openness, honour, and perfect honesty. We wish them to feel how noble it is, not merely to speak the truth, but to speak the simple unaltered truth, whether it tell for or against themselves. But how can we effect this, unless our example uniformly concur with our instructions? If it be seen by them that we unscrupulously promise, and fail to perform, what opinion can they form of our truth and honesty? If they say they will do a thing and neglect to do it, they are charged with falsehood perhaps. Is there one standard of truth and falsehood for a child, and another for a man or a woman?

May their parents equivocate, and they be subject to reproof and punishment for equivocation? Is honour and honesty one thing in a boy or a girl and another in a father or a mother?

They know better than this, if we do not.

And do not let us say that when we make a promise we intend to perform; but circumstances alter, so that we must retract. It is one of the characteristics of a good and upright man that-"He sweareth to his own hurt, and changeth not." It is sometimes allowable, of course, to make conditional promises to our children, as well as to others. If it should be a fine day to-morrow, I will take you for a walk, or a ride.' If I should be able to afford it, I will buy you this or that.' But the fewer these conditional promises are, the better. Hopes are excited by them that end in disappointment; and when often repeated the child naturally gets into a habit of thinking, or saying-Ah: "if-if"-papa (or mama) is always ifing." I like straight out ". yes or "no" best." We shall do well to remember, too, that the very thing that is promised is that which will be looked for; and that nothing we can substitute for it will be considered as altogether cancelling the engagement. If I have promised to take my youngsters to Dfor a holiday, it does not satisfy them that once or twice since the promise was made—I have taken them to W- - Not a bit of it.

་་

'But you said, papa; you know you said,' and so

Ah,' said a person, some time ago, passing a house by the road-side, 'that house ought to be mine by rights.'

How is that ?'

"Why, before my poor father died-years and years ago and often and often he told me he meant to leave it to me in his will; and he did not. He left it to my brother.'

This was true; but not the whole truth. Old Mr.

Robinson had promised to leave the property to his son John; but in process of time John went to live in another part of the country, and brother Thomas remained at home. In short, the old farmer thought that a different disposition of his property from that which he had formerly intended and laid down, would be more convenient for both John and Thomas.

More convenient it was, perhaps, but not more satisfactory. Father always said he would leave this house to me,' said John, when the will was read. "You have got something else instead of it,' said Thomas, that's quite as much, or more.'

'I don't know about that, Thomas,' replied John. 'At all events, father didn't keep his promise.'

And from that time to this, John Robinson and his brother Thomas have scarcely spoken to each other.

We say, once more, parents should be careful how they make promises; and careful not to break them when made. This is good Morality for Home.

112

OLD GRANNY.

SHE was toothless, lame with rheumatism, half blind, and palsied. Her scanty grey hair fell in straggling confusion over her dirty, wrinkled face; and the coarse skin hung loose upon her bony, shrivelled arms. Her dress corresponded with her person; it was mean, tattered, and filthy. Neglect and utter disregard to personal appearance were disgustingly apparent in that old woman; and it was evident, too, that these were the results or accompaniments of mental imbecility, intensified by abject helplessness. Such was 'Old Granny.'

She had a name of course; but for years and years had she been known as 'Old Granny,' except when, in tones of mockery, contempt, reproach, or violent wrath, she was addressed by those around her by the terms 'old hag,' 'old fool,' and others, with which these pages cannot be polluted. But whatever was the vile substantive, the adjective was 'Old.'

'Old Granny' had been young, certainly; and possibly attractive. At all events, she had been a wife and a mother. Yes, and this is remembered too, in the midst of her mental darkness,-strive as she might to forget it-she was still a mother.

It was in a smart farm-house in which 'Old Granny' dragged on her wretched existence: the farmer was a rich man, the people said and thought,-perhaps he was; the farmer's wife was ignorant and vain; their three daughters were showy and proud; the farmer's men were coarse and, for the most part, brutal; the farmer's maids were faint copies of their mistresses, young and old: and to all these-master