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Year after year came and went, in ever varying succession, adding, every now and then, another and another to the number of Mr. Bancroft’s household treasures. For these, he was not always as thankful as he should have been; and more than once, in anticipation of blessings in this line, was known to say something, in a murmuring way, about being “blessed to death.” And yet for Flora, and William, and Mary, and Kate, and even Harry, the last and least, he had a place in his heart, and all lay there without crowding or jostling each other. The great trouble was, what he was to do with them all. How are they to be supported and educated? True, his salary had been increased until it was a thousand dollars, which was as much as he could expect to receive. On this he was getting along very well, that is, making both ends meet at the expiration of each year. But the children were getting older all the time, and would soon be more expense to him; and then there was no telling how many more were still to come. They had been dropping in, one after another, ever since his marriage, without so much as saying “By your leave, sir!” and how long was this to continue, was a question much more easily asked than answered. Sometimes he made light of the subject, and jested with his wife about her “ten daughters;” but it was rather an unrelishable jest, and never was given with a heartiness that made it awaken more than a smile upon the gentle face of his excellent partner.

We will let five or six years more pass, and then bring our friend, Mr. Bancroft, again before the reader. Flora has grown into a tall girl of fifteen, who is still going to school. William, now a youth of thirteen, is a lad of great promise. His mind is rapidly opening, and is evidently one of great natural force. His father has procured for him the very best teachers, and is determined to give him all the advantages in his power to bestow. Mary and Kate are two sprightly girls, near the respective ages of eight and eleven; and Harry, a quiet, innocent-minded, loving child, is in his sixth year. There is another still, a little giddy, dancing elf, named Lizzy, whose voice, except during the brief periods of sleep, rings through the house all day. And yet another, who has just come, that the home of Mr. Bancroft may not be without earth’s purest form of innocence–a newborn babe.

To feed, clothe, educate, and find house-room for several children, was more than the father could well do on a thousand dollars a year. But this was not required. During the five or six years that have elapsed, he has passed from the insurance office into a banking institution as book-keeper, at a salary of twelve hundred dollars, thence to the receiving teller’s place, which he now holds at fifteen hundred dollars a year. As his means have gradually increased, his style of living has altered. From a house for which he paid the annual rent of one hundred and fifty dollars, he now resides in one much larger and more comfortable, for which three hundred dollars are paid.

This was the aspect of affairs when the seventh child came in its helpless innocence to ask his love.

One evening, after the mother was about again, Mr. Bancroft, as soon as the children were in bed, and he was entirely alone with his wife, gave way to a rather stronger expression than usual, of the doubt, fear and anxiety with which he was too often beset.

“I really don’t see how we are ever to get through with the education of all these children, Mary,” he remarked with a sigh, “I’m sure it can’t be done with my salary. It takes every cent of it now, and in a little while it must cost us more than it does at present.”