"Constance.

When I shall meet him in the court of heaven, I shall not know him."-- King John.
One evening, the shop closed and the business done, Mr.Roger Morton and his family sat in that snug and comfortable retreat which generally backs the warerooms of an English tradesman.

Happy often, and indeed happy, is that little sanctuary, near to, and yet remote from, the toil and care of the busy mart from which its homely ease and peaceful security are drawn.

Glance down those rows of silenced shops in a town at night, and picture the glad and quiet groups gathered within, over that nightly and social meal which custom has banished from the more indolent tribes who neither toil nor spin.

Placed between the two extremes of life, the tradesman, who ventures not beyond his means, and sees clear books and sure gains, with enough of occupation to give healthful excitement, enough of fortune to greet each new-born child without a sigh, might be envied alike by those above and those below his state--if the restless heart of men ever envied Content! "And so the little boy is not to come ?" said Mrs.Morton as she crossed her knife and fork, and pushed away her plate, in token that she had done supper.
"I don't know .-- Children, go to bed; there--there--that will do.