poverty. The rich would get rid of their pride, the poor of their jealousy; and we should admit, not theoretically and in our prayers, but practically, that we are children of one family, and that the happiness and advancement of one is the happiness and advancement of all. I am fortunate," added Mr. Beckwith, in conclusion, "to have found you here, sir. Here is a trifling sum for the poor woman up stairs; it will, I hope, enable your friends to do what they wish for her—a far greater benefaction than any money I can give." Mrs. Aikin entered just in time to make her acknowledgments, and she made, them as if the kindness were done to herself. Mr. Beckwith changed the subject. "This house must be small for your family, Mrs. Aikin?"
"Yes, sir, but we contrive to make it do."
"What is your rent?"
"For the whole, sir, one hundred and fifty dollars."
"For the whole house, excepting that poor woman's room?"
"I wish it were, sir, but there are two rooms in the garret rented to different persons—the best at six, the other four shillings a week: then there is a good room on this floor that rents at seventy-five dollars a year; and the family in the cellar pay a dollar a week. Paulina's room is twenty shillings a week."
"And pray, Mrs. Aikin, what accommodations do you get for your hundred and fifty dollars?"
"There is this room—you see what it is, sir—a pot of paint and a pail of whitewash, always ready, keep it decent. My husband made this,"
