Triplet could only say, 'My poor husband!" and prayed and wept upon the couch where she lay.

It was at this juncture that a lady who had knocked gently, and unheard, opened the door and with a light step entered the apartment.

"Wasn't somebody inquiring for an angel just now? Here I am! See, Mr. Triplet!"

"Mrs. Woffington," said Triplet, rising and introducing her to his wife. Mrs. Woffington planted herself in the middle of the floor, and with a comical glance, setting her arms akimbo, uttered a shrill whistle.

"Now you will see another angel-there are two sorts of them."

Her black servant Pompey came in with a basket. She took it from him.

"I heard that you were ill, ma'am, and I have brought you some medicine from Burgundy. Mrs. Triplet, will you allow me to eat my luncheon with you? I am very hungry." Turning towards Pompey, she sent him out for a pie which she professed she had fallen in love with at the corner of the street.

"Mother," said Alcibiades, "will the lady give me a bit of her pie?”

"Hush! you rude boy!" cried the mother.

"She is not much of a lady if she does not,” cried Mrs. Woffington. "Eat away, children. Now's your time! When once I begin, the pie will soon end."

Lucy said gravely, "The lady is very funny. Do you ever cry, pretty lady?"

"Oh, of course not," ironically.

"Comedy is crying," said Lucy, confidentially. "Father cried all the time he was writing his one.”

Triplet turned red as fire.

"Hold your tongue!" said he. "I was bursting with merriment. Wife, our children talk too much; they put their noses into everything and criticise their own father. And when they take up a notion, Socrates couldn't convince them to the contrary. For instance, Madame, all this morning they thought fit to assume that they were starving."

"So we were," said Lysimachus, "till the angel came and then sent out for a pie."

"There-there-there-now you mark my words," said Triplet. “We shall never get that idea out of their heads

"Until," said Mrs. Woffington, putting another huge piece of pie into Roxalana's plate, "we put a very different idea into their stomachs." This, and the look she cast upon Mrs. Triplet, fairly caught that good though somber personage. She giggled, put her hand to her face and said, "I'm sure I ask your pardon, ma'am.”

It was no use. The comedian had determined that they should all laugh, and they were made to laugh. Their first feeling was wonder. Were they the same who ten minutes ago were weeping together? Yes! Ten minutes ago they were rayless, joyless, hopeless. Now the sun was in their hearts, and sighing and sorrow had fled away.

It was magical! Could a mortal play upon the soul of man, woman, and child like this?

Happy Mrs. Woffington! And suppose this was more than half acting, but such acting as Triplet never dreamed of? If it were art, glory to such art so worthily applied, and honor to such creatures as this, that come like sunshine into poor

men's homes, and turn drooping hearts into happiness and hope.

CHARLES READE.

Al că bi'a dēş

Ly sim'a chés,

SŎe'ra teş

DISCUSSION OF THE LESSON.

Select those passages that are remarkable for pathos; state the circumstances that render them so. In what portions of the lesson is the comic element so mingled with the pathetic, that it moves us to smiles and tears at the same time? What portions are purely amusing? What deeper emotions are stirred by the brave little Lucy's "I'm not so very hungry," and the stout corroboration of " 'bluff Lysimachus"? What noble traits of character are displayed by the poor wife? Which response of hers is sublime? What tribute does the author pay to Mrs. Woffington's charitable "art"? Is the language of this tribute beautiful? Repeat it.

MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN.

When chill November's surly blast
Made fields and forests bare,
One evening, as I wandered forth
Along the banks of Ayr,

I spied a man whose aged step

Seemed weary, worn with care:

His face was furrowed o'er with years,

And hoary was his hair.

"Young stranger, whither wanderest thou?" Began the reverend sage;

"Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain, Or youthful pleasures rage?

Or haply, prest with cares and woes,
Too soon thou hast began

To wander forth, with me, to mourn
The miseries of man!

"The sun that overhangs yon moors,
Outspreading far and wide,
Where hundreds labor to support
A haughty lordling's pride,—
I've seen yon `weary winter sun
Twice forty times return;

And every time. has added proofs
That man was made to mourn.

"O man, while in thy early years,
How prodigal of time!
Misspending all thy precious hours,
Thy glorious youthful prime!
Alternate follies take the sway:
Licentious passions burn;

Which tenfold force gives Nature's law,
That man was made to mourn.

"Look not alone on youthful prime,
Or manhood's active might;
Man then is useful to his kind,

Supported in his right;

But see him on the edge of life,

With cares and sorrows worn,

Then age and want, O ill-matched pair! Show man was made to mourn.

"A few seem favorites of fate,

In pleasure's lap carest;

Yet think not all the rich and great

Are likewise truly blest.

But O, what crowds in every land,
All wretched and forlorn,

Through weary life this lesson learn,
That man was made to mourn.

"Many and sharp the numerous ills, Inwoven with our frame,

More pointed still we make ourselves, Regret, remorse, and shame!

And man, whose heaven-erected face The smiles of love adorn,

Man's inhumanity to man

Makes countless thousands mourn!

"See yonder poor, o'erlabored wight,
So abject, mean, and vile,
Who begs a brother of the earth
To give him leave to toil;
And see his lordly fellow-worm
The poor petition spurn,
Unmindful though a weeping wife
And helpless offspring mourn.

"If I'm designed yon lordling's slave,By Nature's law designed,

Why was an independent wish

E'er planted in my mind?

If not, why am I subject to

His cruelty or scorn?

Or why has man the will and power To make his fellow mourn?

"Yet let not this too much, my son, Disturb thy youthful breast:

This partial view of human-kind
Is surely not the best!