one ROBERT DAWSON.

little impression upon my ear, and less on my mind. |
I did not heed it, and worked on in something like a
very bungling manner, I am quite sure. But the little
metallic letters artanged themselves, with my help,
into syllables, words, and lines ; and I pleased myself .
in thinking how pleased Jane would be.

‘There is no more harm in doing this than in
writing a letter. What is the difference? And I am
sure everybody here writes letters on Sunday.” In this
way I answered the question that would continually
_ force itself upon me,—“ Are you doing right, Robert ?”

“T have no time any other day, and it will please
them at home so much to see my own printing. And,
besides, I shall go to church when the bell rings.”

Unfortunately I began this, my first work, from type
that lay in disorder; and of course it sadly puzzled
me to find the letters, and greatly prolonged my labour.
On I worked, nor was I aroused until the house-bell
called me to dinner. I started!

“What day is it?” I asked, almost bewildered.

“Sunday! It is Sunday!” and a great fear stole over