Done is the hard-fought battle—

And a weary soul has said good-night.

—Geo. M. Vickers.

[Gestures.]

LITTLE BROWN EYES.

Many years ago there lived in a tiny cottage, a widow and her two children, Frank and Edith. The cottage stood by the roadside, not far from a village, and was almost hidden from view by the pretty roses and vines that clung to its sides.

One warm summer afternoon, when Frank was away to the village with his donkey and cart, and the widow was busy sewing in the back part of the cottage, little Edith, who had been weaving a wreath of flowers, lay fast asleep on the front porch, shaded from the rays of the sun by the arbor that covered the door. She lay there with her long golden hair partly hiding her pretty face, with the unfinished wreath still held in her hands, and her little straw hat filled with buds and sprays, upset at her side.

Now, the road that passed the cottage was much used by travelers, as it led in both directions to large cities; but on this particular afternoon not a human being, nor an animal, nor a vehicle of any sort could be seen on its white, gleaming surface; and save the drone of a passing bee, or an occasional chirp from a cricket under the porch, not a sound broke the deep stillness. Even the birds seemed to be dozing, so nap-inspiring was that sultry summer afternoon.

An hour later and Edith was still sleeping, when the distant rumble of wheels could be heard. They were yet a long way down the road, although from their peculiar rattle it was evident they belonged to a light wagon—perhaps some farmer returning from market. Presently a cloud of white dust rose above the trees and indicated the point reached by the wagon, but the latter could not yet be seen from the cottage on account of the intervening foliage that skirted the roadside. A few moments later an odd-looking, top-heavy vehicle,