“GOOD-BY, PAPA. 
That little maid? Well, yes; you see, 
She is the light of life to me. 
Her mother’s very image, sir, 
So nat’ral-like, I cling to her. 
A little one, I know—not strong; 
But still I pray God spare her long. 
When I leave home at early day, 
I hear her voice far on the way 
Calling, “Good-by! My love, you know, 
Is yours, Papa, where ’er you go.” 
And do you wonder, sir, that I 
Work better for my child’s good-by? 
All? Yes. My wife and little son 
Are dead. I have no other one 
On earth, but that dear child of eight 
You saw beside my cottage gate. 
God grant the day afar may be 
That brings her last good-by to me. 
Uew Ipswich, N.H. _ Mrs. S. G. Wood. 
“Good-by, Papa.” 
BESSIE’S DEAR LOVE. 
“ Cojie, Bessie, that’s all,” said Laura to her little sister, 
who was peeping anxiously now under Pansy leaves, 
now behind Rose bushes, sometimes almost lost, mite 
that she was, in her eager search for more flowers. 
‘ ‘ I wish we had a bushel-basket full every day; don’t 
you, sister?” 
“Yes, I guess they would all be wanted, pet.” 
“We'll plant a great many more seeds next year, 
won't we?” 
“Yes.” The little chatterbox kept on until they 
reached a school-building, which, during the vacation, 
was used for the everyday making up of bouquets which 
went to swell the quantity of country beauty and sweet¬ 
ness sent by hearts filled by the beauty of Divine com¬ 
passion to the great city's sick poor. 
•Bessie worked awayas industriously as anyone, wish¬ 
ing she could go herself and see where her flowers car¬ 
ried happiness, and breathing over every bouquet a hope 
from the very depths of her tender little heart that a 
blessing might go with it. 
“ Look here, sister Laura,” she whispered half shyly, 
one day, before going. “ Would it do any harm if I 
should put these in my bouquets ? ” 
“What, Bessie ? ” She looked at some narrow slips of 
paper on which the little girl had laboriously printed, in 
scraggy, uneven, but distinct letters: 
“ With Bessie’s dear love.” 
“ They won’t show, you know,” she went on; “ only 
I thought perhaps some little girl might be looking so 
•hard at her flowers, as if she was very fond of them, that 
she might see that somebody loved her, and it might 
make her glad.” 
“ Put them in, Bessie : I'm sure they will.” And the 
love messages were carefully tied in. 
A cheery-faced woman carried a basket into a chil¬ 
dren’s hospital. The glaring rays of the July sun were 
shut out, and coolness and freshness, secured as far as 
was possible ; but still the breath of the city air seemed 
stifling to the little ones, who turned eagerly to receive 
each a gift from the ready hand. At every pillow she 
left enough brightness to bring smiles upon the wan 
faces, and still plenty remained to go into another room, 
where were a few of the more seriously ill. 
“ How are you to-day?” asked the bearer, softly lay¬ 
ing her hand on the feverish cheek of the thin-faced girl, 
whose eyes met hers full of a restless longing. 
The only answer was a weary shake of the head. The 
visitor sat down beside her. 
“ And is there no light within, poor child ? The dear 
Master—have you no place in your poor heart for Him 
yet ? He loves you; He died to save you; He is watching 
over you ; He will keep close at your side and help you 
through all you may have to suffer. Cannot you love 
Him?” 
“ I ain’t never seen Him, you know,” said the girl, piti¬ 
fully. “ How can I ? I love you, ’cos I’ve seen you and 
you’re good to me.” 
“ But He sent me to you, and put the love in the hearts 
which were moved to send you these. Cannot you love 
Him because he loved you first ? ” 
/ 
