'Half personal; no real. Come, come, friend, 'tis of no use to blind yourself so. You know you have no personal estate worth speaking of; nothing in the funds nothing in banks-nothing in goods but a few hundred pounds worth of furniture, may be. If you should die without a will, Smith, your wife would be reduced to poverty; and I don't think that would be just right-it would be a most immoral action, my friend, as I take it. Eh?'

'Oho! I tell you I don't mean to die yet; not till I have made my will, at any rate. So be easy, neighbour. I may as well take this bit of paper with me, though and look it over.'

It was a hopeless case for that night, certainly, and Mr. Jackson gave up in despair of accomplishing his purpose. Nevertheless, he hoped his friend would think of it; for, said he to his wife, afterwards, 'I am sure that a man who has got anything to leave behind him, if 'tis only ten pounds, does not do his duty to those he loves if he does not make a rightdown plain, fair, and honest will.'

For some weeks after this conversation, Mr. Smith 'fought very shy,' as the phrase goes, of his friend. The fact is, he was one of those men who have a dread of anything that reminds them of death. He did not like to recognise and grapple with the idea that 'This is not our rest.' And when the conviction was forced upon him, it made him nervous and uncomfortable. He was angry, therefore, with Mr. Jackson, and he was angry with himself, for he knew that, by his foolish neglect, he was doing a grievous wrong to his wifethat if, at last, he should die intestate, his elder cousin, for whom he did not care a dump,' would inherit the property to which none had so righteous a claim as the faithful partner who had, by her prudence, assisted in its accumulation, and, by her affection, added to its enjoyment.

But he would not make his will

Two years passed away, and the houses at Bell's Cross, the cottages at Hook's Corner, and the 'Three Magpies,' at D- were sold, other and more desirable freeholds being bought with the money which they produced. But still there was always something to be done which made it inconvenient, as he averred, for Mr. Smith to execute his 'last will and testament.'

At length the time came, most suddenly and unexpectedly too, when the strong man who boasted in his strength must die. He was walking along the high road on a hot summer's day, when he fell prostrate in a fit. It was apoplexy. He was carried home and laid insensible on his bed. In a few hours all was

over.

A few minutes only of returning consciousness were given him, and then he contrived to make known his wish to see his neighbour Jackson. Mr. Jackson came, and understood at once the almost agonizing earnestness with which his dying friend pointed to a desk, and made feeble signs of writing. In a few seconds a pen was in Mr. Jackson's hand, and a sheet of paper before him, and he began to write

'This is the last will of me, Michael Smith

:

The last

A groan interrupted him he looked up. struggle had come, and the last hope was over. Michael Smith, after all, died intestate. *

'You don't surely mean to take advantage of your cousin Smith's sudden end, and cast his poor widow helpless and moneyless on the world, do you?' was the strong remonstrance of Mr. Jackson with the heir-at-law, a few days after the funeral. You have not the heart to do it, sure? You cannot think of

doing it, can you, when I tell you, on my most solemn word, that my old friend told me, over and over again, that he meant to leave all to her? You will make some provision for her, I should think, out of this unexpected windfall ?'

'O,' said the cousin, with dogged determination, 'she shall have what the law allows, of course; and as to anything else, if cousin Smith had meant it to be different, he would have made a will.'

Argument was useless, and so were entreaties: and the poor widow :- -ah! she did not long survive the double stroke. But while she lived she was indebted to the generous kindness of her friend Jackson, for the home which the criminal neglect of a fond husband had denied.

Reader; the man who has anything to leave, and who does not make a will, disregards one of the MoRALITIES OF HOME.

THE HISTORY OF A LIFE INSURANCE.

IN TWO CHAPTERS.

CHAPTER I.

Ir was Saturday evening; the streets of our town were pretty well thronged with men in fustian jackets, and women in warm shawls, for it was a chilly autumnal night. The men had, most of them, short pipes in their mouths, and seemed to have little to do but look about them. The women had baskets on their arms, and had a busy air upon them: they were 'doing their marketing.' Here and there, man and wife were seen together, the husband assisting the woman in spending the week's money, and bearing her burden for her: but this was not very common, for the men in our town don't like to be seen doing what they call 'woman's work.'

It was a pretty prosperous time: the two factories which our town boasts, were in full work, and the factory folks were earning good wages. Trade of all sorts was consequently brisk; and there were no idlers except those who chose to be idle. The fustian jacketed men of whom we have spoken were principally from the mills. They had left work at four o'clock, with their wages in their pockets.

The shops were full. Grocers and provision dealers, bakers and butchers, were all well employed that evening. So were the drapers and slop sellers, hosiers and hatters. So were the stall-keepers in the market place. So also-the more the pity-we were the publi

cans and spirit dealers; as night came on, the gin shops and tap rooms became more crowded; and before twelve o'clock, more than one drunken riot had to be quelled by the policemens' staves.

James Mannering was one of the 'fustian jackets' who was not above woman's work.' That evening, at least, he was not. While his wife stayed at home to wash and put to bed her three young children, James, basket in hand, and a longish list of requirements in his head, and with money in his canvas bag, securely buttoned in his pocket, made towards the market street. And when he said 'good bye' to his wife, and 'good night' to his youngsters, telling them to be good children till he came back, Martha was as confident that he would do his errands well, and return as sober as when he set out, as she was that 'sparks fly upwards.'

One shop after another was entered by Mannering, until his basket was considerably heavy, and his purse proportionably light. He had only one more bit of shopping to do, and that was at the draper's. He did not much fancy going in, for there were so many women and girls, and he was afraid he should be quizzed. However, he made a bold push.

There was no one just then, of all the shopmen, sufficiently disengaged to serve him at once with the yard or two of calico for mending, and the socks for little James and Susan, and the baby's worsted shoes, and the worsted stockings for himself, which formed the staple commodities of his order; so he patiently sat down where he thought he should be least in the way, and put the basket between his feet.

The draper knew him by sight and name. 'How do, Mannering; I'll wait on you in a minute. Here's something for you to look at while you wait,'-and he put a small hand-bill into 'fustian jacket's' hand.

Mannering nodded, and began to read. Before he had finished-he was a slow reader-he had a chance of being served to calico, socks, baby's shoes, and stockings.