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“You are very kind, Jane,” said Ellen, and her voice slightly trembled.

A silence of some moments ensued, and then the subject of conversation was changed to one more cheerful.

That evening, just about nightfall, Henry Thorne came home, much fatigued, bringing with him half a dozen squirrels and a single wild pigeon.

“There, Ellen, is something to make a nice pie for us to-morrow,” said he, tossing his game bag upon the table.

“You look tired, Henry,” said his wife, tenderly; “I wouldn’t go out any more this fall, if I were you.”

“I don’t intend going out any more, Ellen,” was replied, “I’m sick of it.”

“You don’t know how glad I am to hear you say so! Somehow, I always feel troubled and uneasy when you are out gunning or fishing, as if you were not doing right.”

“You shall not feel so any more, Ellen,” said Thorne: “I’ve been thinking all the afternoon about your cloak. Cold weather is coming, and we haven’t a dollar laid by for anything. How I am to get the cloak, I do not see, and yet I cannot bear the thought of your going all this winter again without one.”

“O, never mind that, dear,” said Ellen, in a cheerful tone, her face brightening up. “We can’t afford it this fall, and so that’s settled. But I can have Jane’s whenever I want it, she says; and you know she is so kind and willing to lend me anything that she has. I don’t like to wear her things; but then I shall not want the cloak often.”

Henry Thorne sighed at the thoughts his wife’s words stirred in his mind.

“I don’t know how it is,” he at length said, despondingly; “William can’t work any faster than I can, nor earn more a week, and yet he and Jane have every thing comfortable, and are saving money into the bargain, while we want many things that they have, and are not a dollar ahead.”

One of the reasons for this, to her husband so unaccountable, trembled on Ellen’s tongue, but she could not make up her mind to reprove him; and so bore in silence, and with some pain, what she felt as a reflection upon her want of frugality in managing household affairs.

Let us advance the characters we have introduced, a year in their life’s pilgrimage, and see if there are any fruits of these good resolutions.

“Where is Thorne, this morning?” asked the owner of the shop, speaking to Moreland, one morning, an hour after all the workmen had come in.

“I do not know, really,” replied Moreland. “I saw him yesterday, when he was well.”

“He’s off gunning, I suppose, again. If so, it is the tenth day he has lost in idleness during the last two months. I am afraid I shall have to get a hand in his place, upon whom I can place more dependence. I shall be sorry to do this for your sake, and for the sake of his wife. But I do not like such an example to the workmen and apprentices; and besides being away from the shop often disappoints a job.”

“I could not blame you, sir,” Moreland said; “and yet, I do hope you will bear with him for the sake of Ellen. I think if you would talk with him it would do him good.”

“But, why don’t you talk to him, William?”

“I have talked to him frequently, but he has got so that he won’t bear it any longer from me.”

“Nor would he bear it from me, either, I fear, William.”

Just at that moment the subject of the conversation came in.

“You are late this morning, Henry,” said the owner of the shop to him, in the presence of the other workmen.

“It’s only a few minutes past the time,” was replied, moodily.

“It’s more than an hour past.”

“Well, if it is, I can make it up.”

“That is not the right way, Henry. Lost time is never made up.”