It was a cold January night. The stars glowed and sparkled, and ever and anon shot rapidly across the clear blue sky, as if it was out of all reason to expect them to stay on duty such a bitter night, without a little occasional exercise.

The few pedestrians whom business had unfortunately driven out, hurried along with rapid strides, steaming breath, and hands thrust into their pockets; and, as their arms protruded, handle-fashion, they might have been mistaken for so many brown jugs in locomotion.

Through many a richly-curtained window, the bright lights gleamed cheerfully, while the merry song or laugh from within, might be heard by the shivering outsiders, quickening the steps of those who were so lucky as to have firesides of their own, and making the night, to those who had none, seem still more cold and drear.

Beneath one of these brilliantly-lighted windows, down upon the frosty pavement, crouched a bundle of rags, it scarce seemed more, so motionless had it lain there, for hours; for on such a bitter night no one felt inclined to stop and investigate it; and yet there was life within it, feeble and nickering though it was.

Now and then a pair of hollow eyes gleamed out, and gazed wildly about, and then the lids would close over them, and the head droop back again to its old posture.

Now and then a murmur issued from the parched lips, and one might have heard, had he been very near, the words—

"Mercy! mercy!"

And still from the window above, the bird-like voice caroled out its sweet song, and merry voices joined in the chorus.

Now a little child, with broad, expansive brow, and sweet, soul-lit eyes, parts the rich damask curtains, and pressing his little face closely against the window-pane, gazes out into the frosty night.

"How brightly the gleaming stars shine! I wonder how long have they shone? I wonder are they really all little worlds? and people in them? I wonder—" and here the child stopped, for the bundle of rags beneath the window gave a convulsive heave, and his quick ear had caught the words despair had uttered:

"Mercy! mercy!"

"Oh! papa—dear papa, Gertrude, John, oh, come!" and with heart of pity and winged feet, little Charley darted through the dining-room door, out into the wide hall, and down the steps to the bundle of rags whence the sound issued.

The eyes had closed again, the head had drooped, and the poor thin, outstretched hands fallen hopelessly down upon the frosty pavement.

"Run in, Charley," said John; "the air is bitter cold. Move away, dear, and let me take this poor creature up."

It was a light burthen, that bundle of rags, though the heart beneath it was so heavy.

Rose and Gertrude sprang forward and arranged pillows on the sofa for the dying woman, for such she seemed to be, and chafed her hands and temples, while John and Vincent dropped some wine between the pale lips.

Slowly she opened her eyes. Warmth! light! kind words! kind faces! Where was she?

Now Rose bends over her a face pitying as God's angels. The hollow eyes glare wildly upon it, a spasm passes over the pale face of the sufferer, and as she turns away to the pillow, she falters out,

"Oh! God forgive me! Mercy! mercy!"

"May He grant it!" said the shuddering Rose, hiding her face in her husband's bosom, as Markham's despairing, dying wail rang in her ears. "May God grant it, even at the eleventh hour."

When youth had passed, and, standing upon the threshhold of manhood, Charley looked out upon the tangled web of life, and saw (seemingly) the scales of eternal justice unevenly balanced, memory painted again, in freshened colors, that scene, and inscribed beneath it—

GOD IS JUST!

THE END.