Our burden on the stile we lay,
And, silent, view the traversed way,
And for our future journey pray.

Between the years we muse, alone-
The year whose wingèd hours have flown,
The coming year that looms unknown.

Grateful upon the past we gaze:
Our "Stone of Help ""* once more we raise,
And lift the sacrifice of praise ;—

For safety on Life's dangerous shore,
Where shadows fall and billows roar,-
Mercies abounding more and more;

For Love Divine, alluring, free,
And boundless as the rolling sea,
And endless as eternity;

And most of all for Heavenly grace,
Which finds its sweetest dwelling-place
In the Redeemer's Holy Face:

While every answer to our prayers,
And every lessening of our cares,
Our thankful adoration shares.

But forward now our eyes we cast,
And
pray
that mercies of the past
May through the New Year's journey last.

Lord, may Thy presence be our stay,
The guide and comfort of our way,
And strength be given us as our day.

Thyself, Lord, show to us the road,
And lighten still our daily load
With glimpses of Thy blest Abode;

Until, Life's latest stile cross'd o'er,
We take our burden up no more,

But rest in bliss on Heaven's bright shore!

CHAPTER I.

TIM'S DESIRES.

SAY, Mary," said Tim Teddington abruptly, one day: "I just wish I was in somebody else's shoes this minute, that I do."

Mary stopped short in the act of lifting a spoon to baby's mouth, and gazed at Tim in astonishment.

"Wish you was in somebody else's shoes, Tim?" said she.

"And

"Yes, I do," said Tim decisively. what's more, I don't know as I much care whose. There ain't a fellow in the place worse off than me. I'm not a-grumbling, now people usually preface complaints with this remark, so Mary ought to have guessed immediately what was coming-"I'm not agrumbling, but it's just a case of fact and common sense. There ain't a single fellow in the whole town, take it all in all, whom I wouldn't change with and welcome."

Mary glanced thoughtfully about the room. It did look bare certainly. And they only had one single room in a big house now, up on the third storey, instead of a nice little cottage all to themselves. They had been in a great deal of trouble this winter. Tim had been long out of work, and Mary had been ill, and little Tim and the baby had been ailing, and living had been dear. All superfluous clothes and furniture had disappeared into the pawnshop. And yet it did seem as if Tim himself had not been to blame in the matter. He was more anxious for regular work than in former days, but work was more slack to come.

"There ain't one single fellow," repeated Tim emphatically. "Just you look round, Mary, and see if I don't speak truth."

Perret, Pat O'Rory, and all the rest of them.

"Well ?" said Tim, desirous that she should agree with him, for Tim liked sympathy as well as most people.

"You wouldn't want to change with the sweeper at the corner, maybe," said Mary, with some quiet mischief.

"I'm not talking of such fellows as that," said Tim with dignity. "I hope I've nought to do with any save decent respectable sort of folk."

"Jem Robinson," said Mary. "I don't know as you'd like to be in his place, would you? They've been in trouble enough lately."

"All his own fault," said Tim. "A fellow as takes to drinking away all his wages needn't look for comfort in his home. I pity his wife with all my heart, I do; but as for him, why, he's turning into another Joe Green, and I don't need to say more than that. I wasn't thinking of such-like folks. I hope I'm respectable anyway, if we have gone down a bit in the world."

Mary hoped so too, and felt quite sure of it. Once upon a time Tim had not been over steady, but things were different now. Wages had not been plentiful this winter; but such as they were, Tim brought them all safely home, and in Mary's hands not a penny was ever wasted. Good little Mary Teddington! If there were but many such wives!

"Pat O'Rory," said Mary.

"What makes you go and pick out such fellows as him," demanded Tim half angrily, -"when you know he don't care a straw if he is in at elbows or out, nor whether he lives in a house or a hovel? No, I wouldn't be him, sure enough. But there's Sebastian Smith now, getting up in the world as fast as we're going down. I wish I was in his shoes, that I do."

"I don't know as I like Sebastian Smith so much as I did once on a time," said Mary doubtfully. "I don't want to be hard on him, Tim; but you know-well, it does seem to me

"Troubles is enough to make anybody hard," growled Tim under his breath.

"But Smith hasn't had no troubles to speak of this winter," said Mary. "He's got on wonderful well. But you've had troubles, and yet you're a deal kinder than you used to be, Tim," added Mary with an affectionate glance; "and I'm sure Smith don't look happy."

"Don't know about that," said Tim, though he spoke gently, for the little compliment was

That being the case, Mary no doubt thought silence on her part desirable.

"Then there's Thomasine Dodd," said Tim presently. "Landlord of all these houses, and lots more. Why, the man must be nigh worth his weight in gold!"

"He ain't over agreeable to look upon," said Mary.

"Looks don't signify," returned Tim. "I'm not sure as I wouldn't like best to exchange with the gentleman as lives in the

66

Tim, I think Mr. Maxwell wouldn't be best pleased to hear you talking like that," said Mary softly. "He'd say nothing in the world ever came about by luck."

Tim didn't much like being reproved by his wife, only she spoke so meekly that it was quite impossible to take offence; so he just rode over the remark, and pretended not to have heard it.

"I'll tell you what,—I'd like amazing well to be in the doctor's shoes, Mary. That I would! He's an easy life of it and no mistake: going about in his carriage all day long, and just paying visits to folks, and ordering a bottle of medicine here and there, and getting lots of money for every bit of advice he gives. Tell you, Mary, I'd like that. Wouldn't I change with him if I had the chance ?"

"Maybe you'd want to change back again," said Mary placidly.

"Not I! You don't know what you're

over its front. That's the sort of life for me, -'specially if I'd you with me, Mary," added Tim, suddenly and for the first time remembering that his little wife would be no inconsiderable loss. "A comfortable house, and nothing to do, except just whatever I liked, and able to earn guineas by a scratch of a pen, for he's one of them folks that writes and prints his writings. Yes; I'd be him this minute if I could."

There was great wisdom in these words. Most folks have something indeed; and Tim could have verified the fact in each case from even his own knowledge, but he didn't choose to believe it just then.

“I know I'd take anything he has to bear, and glad enough, if I could only stand in his shoes. There, you needn't say nothing, Mary. I know you'd be glad enough to change if you could.”

Mary obeyed and did say naught. Tim stretched himself, and looked up to the ceiling. His ideas were gradually expanding, and becoming more lofty.

"And then there's his lordship. I'd like to be him best of all. Ain't no doubt about that. Wouldn't it be splendid, Mary? He's got every single thing he can wish-not one wanting. Friends, and money, and lands, and nothing to do, and nothing to trouble him. I just wish I was in his lordship's shoes! I just wish I was!"

Tim's wishes were rising high. Mary began to wonder whether he wouldn't next express a desire to stand in the shoes of Her Majesty the Queen herself.