He pulled out his purse and gave the child three or four large gold pieces. The little hands could not hold them, and they fell on the carpet, rolling in different directions. Bullion left hastily, with a quick nod and a clipped "Good-bye."
"Well, I vow!" said Fletcher, with a long breath. "It's well he didn't stay to pick 'em up; they'd 'ave stuck to his fingers like wax. He couldn't have let 'em alone."
"What a good man he is!" said the overjoyed little woman.
"Good man! He's crazy. Old Bullion giving away gold pieces to a baby! He's lost his wits, sure. He never gave away a sixpence before in his life. Oh, he's cracked, without a doubt. I must keep watch of him. When he grows generous, there's something wrong."
[To be continued.]
THE WATERFALL.
Down across the green and sunny meadow,
Where the grass hangs thick with glistening dew,—
In the birch-wood's flickering light and shadow,
Where, between green leaves, the sun shines through,—
Plunging deeper in the wood's dark coolness,
Where the path grows rougher and more steep,
Where the trees stand thick in leafy fulness,
And the moss lies green in shadows deep:—
Hark! the wind amid the tree-tops rushing
In a sudden gust along the hills!—
No,—the leaves are still,—'tis water gushing
From some hidden haunt of mountain-rills.
Upward through the rugged pathway struggling,
Loud and louder yet the music grows;
Near and nearer still, the water's gurgling
Guides me where o'er moss-grown rocks it flows.