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A homely room, so very poor and homely! And God bless the sunshine, say I, the noble, glorious king of day that in all his greatness and splendor loves just as dearly to fling his beautiful golden beams in the humblest cottage, as in yonder great palace built of fine marble, and furnished with the richest things that money can buy. How he seemed to rejoice in reddening the posts of that old, worn bedstead, bought at the cheapest of cheap auctions -- indeed I am not sure that it had not seen the light, or rather the darkness of a good many auction-sales. Every one of the three chairs, reduced to their original color, by frequent scouring, had passed from owner to owner, and many were the stories they might have told, could they have spoken. There was just one yard of carpeting, all told, placed before the old bedstead, before spoken of, and its faded flowers revived every morning at seven, when that wonderful sunshine laid upon it, as if it had been the most beautiful rug in the city, all woven of silk and velvet. There were pictures on the walls of this poor room, and such pictures! Some people might have laughed at them, and cried out, "Oh! what a farce!" Here and there hung a fine fashion plate cut from a magazine; an illustration, coarse and common, that the torn newspapers furnished when they came into patient Tilly's hands. That was very seldom indeed. There was a little lame boy who always wore a red scarf, and who sold papers, living in the next room, which was meaner than Tilly's, who saved every picture he could find for the girl. And the mother, coarse and uncoated though she was, hunted for refuse newspapers, and happy enough she was when she could find a picture for Tilly to cut out.

Who was Tilly? I've been waiting for you to ask. Picture a saint's face that has grown holy with waiting and suffering with the meekest eyes and the sweetest smile that were ever seen in this poor wicked world, set on a poor, deformed, crooked body, forever wasting with pain and anguish, forever being tortured with some unknown, incurable disease, and you have Tilly Margery before you. Picture her bed, drawn close up to the window that looked down upon a dirty, stifled court, but at the same time permitted a glimpse, between two houses, of a green square not a dozen yards off, and part of a beautiful garden; and see the girl looking out upon this, her only glimpse of Paradise, her head propped up on pillows, a lovely smile curving her colorless lips. Tilly's mother worked like a slave for the sake of that one little bit of tender beauty that nestled in green grass and flowers. She could have had a cheaper room, on the back floor, higher up, and taken a little rest sometimes, but oh! for Tilly's sake! the child born to suffer through no fault of her own, she kept the more expensive home. She had tried all manner of loving expedients, in order that the child might be happier. A coarse curtain was drawn across the room, so that when she took in washing as she did three days in the week, Tilly should not be troubled at the sight of clothes, and the confusion incident to such labor. Ah! there was never tenderer love in the fairest and richest homes, where the petted darlings of wealth knew no wish unsatisfied, than in this poor room, looking down into the noisy, dirty court, and over at that spot of brightness and loveliness, where the colors that nature rejoices in, satisfied one pair of eyes, at least, with a sense of the beautiful.

"And what makes ye look so pleasant, dear?" asked the woman, one morning, coming from her tub of steaming suds to the bedside.

"I was thinking, mother dear, that God was so good to me," said the girl, smiling.

"Dear knows ye've little to be thankful for," murmured the woman, furtively wiping her eyes.

"O, mother," then there was a pause, and an expression of intense love on the sweet, pale face -- "I've got you."

"Ah, and the one sweet drop in my cup, that would be overflowing with bitterness, ye are my soul's darling!" cried the homely woman bending over and kissing the pale brow. "But ye've little beside me, poor as I am."

"Mamma, just see here; I've been thinking about that dear little view there, and how good the great Father up in heaven is to have placed me where I can see it. There's a little yellow bird been flitting about from tree to tree, and it sent my thoughts up into the happy country that I love to think is full of birds and flowers. It's like a jewel between rough stones, a jewel beyond all price, that's what it is. And sometimes in that bit of beautiful garden there's a young girl comes out, always dressed in soft fine dresses, or I fancy so, and she walks among the flowers, and stoops down to them. Perhaps she kisses them -- I should -- O! how I should kiss them! I see her every day, now, and I know she is beautiful. I love her, mother, though not like you, but then I do love her, and I don't know why. Sometimes I dream of her; always, these summer days, in white, always among flowers. I don't suppose I shall ever know her."

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"It's not likely, poor dear."

"No, it's not likely -- of course not. Such as she seldom come to us, you know, but then I like her; it does me good to see her just walking there, so easy, so free from trouble."

"Aye, walking and free from trouble. O, deary me, deary me! what you must feel who haven't touched feet to the floor all these years. I wish I had the faith that's talked of, ye'd stand and walk and run, poor child. I often think if the Lord is so good, so kind, so --"

"Hush, mother -- darling mother, don't say it. It's in your eyes, but I know you would be sorry. Why if we've to go living on, forever and forever, what would I mind, though I laid here a hundred years, if only I went up there at last. Don't you know we can't even imagine the glory beyond, and that I'll leap there like the poor man our Saviour cured? It almost gives me wings, it makes me so happy. A woman who came here once, and wanted to do me good, said, 'What was she born for?' I'll never forget how I felt nor how the words of that old catechism came into my mind, 'to enjoy God and glorify him forever.' One minute there, I think, will pay for all the pains and sufferings here, and then it's so good to think of!" Words cannot express the infinite calm that came with a smile in that sweet face, as she lifted her eyes heavenward, repeating, "it's so good to think of !"

"Well, deary, I'll say you're a wonder to me. Wherever you've larnt all the wisdom you talk of, I can't tell I'm sure. I listened to hear you with that fine old gentleman with the gray beard, and I wondered if you belonged to me. Sure my heart jumped to my mouth, when he talked about the chair, but such as him forgets. They go about their business, and has so many things to think of, that our sorrows go in at one ear and out of the other. I suppose we oughtn't to blame them, but the rich doesn't often feel for the poor; it's a great wonder, too, when they see them all round on every side."

"O, but, mother, he will remember. He was in a great hurry then, but I am sure he will remember. He may not get the chair. I didn't look for that; it's too fine a gift -- thirty dollars! it's a great sum, and to spend that on poor little me. No matter, I'm quite used to the bed; only it's so hard for you."

"Hard!" cried the woman, "it's light and easy, and a pleasure, darling nothing comes hard that I do for you."

THE sunshine had drifted by the little room, and it was all outdoors. It laid now in serene beauty on the bit of garden, and on the green spot of a square. Dame Margery's work was done, that is, the white, clean clothes were flapping in the brisk breeze on the little shed where she dried them, the room was tidied up, the floor shone like a glass bottle, the curtain was drawn asides and so cheery and happy were its inmates, just now, that the atmosphere seemed full of little particles of happiness, that took the place of the sunbeams, and made a stand of it there.

But yet the homely, busy mother had work on her hands, making coarse garments for some family who supplied her with sewing. Tilly was cutting out paper figures, and every few moments, pleased with her work, she called for her mother's approval.

"See, mamma, here's a poor, old, blind man with a long beard, and here's a little dog that he leads by a string, and a girl with a hood on (his granddaughter, you know), who takes the pennies and buys food for the poor old man. What a blessing that I'm not blind! Instead of that, I can see so many beautiful things, I see you --"

"Me! poor old seam-faced thing with the blue afore my eyes," laughed the mother.

"You shan't call yourself names!" cried Tilly, indignantly, "you're just beautiful to me. I love the seams, and the scars, and the wrinkles, every one of them, and I love the dear, hard hands that have worked so for me ever since I was born. Well, as I was saying," she continued, still clipping and notching with the scizzors, "I can see you, and the sky, and the sunshine, and the square yonder, and the flowers, and the birds, and the sweet young lady; why I could not count my blessing if I tried," she laughed a cheerful little hum of a laugh, "then I have my hands, such strong stout hands; if they could only work for you, mammy dear!"

A brisk little knock sounded at the door. The woman opened it, and there shone it its wealth of silver gray luxuriance the beard of Uncle Ralph, and above it his large, brown eyes, and great handsome forehead round which the snow-sifted curls clung lovingly.

"I hope I am not intruding," said Uncle Ralph.

"O, no, no!" cried Tilly, a sudden depth of joy in her voice, then she stopped short, for somebody came in with Uncle Ralph, and stood looking at her for a moment full of wonder and pity.

"I brought my little granddaughter Anne with me," said Uncle Ralph. "Anne, dear, this is Tilly, of whom I told you. See, how happy she looks; a lesson for you, my dear, for all of us, every one of us."

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"I'm glad you brought her," said Tilly, holding out the shadowy hand that she called so strong, wondering at the tears in Anne's eyes. "I seldom see girls of my own age, and I should think you were quite as old as I."

"O, no," Anne said, quickly, "I am older than you; I am twelve."

"But I am fourteen, almost fifteen," responded Tilly; why, I seem so large and clumsy to myself, sometimes I almost wish I might stop growing, I'm such a weight for mother."

"Not much more than a baby, miss, light as a feather," interrupted the good woman; "she was never no trouble, never, since that I can recollect."

"Mother thinks so," said Tilly, with an angelic smile; "but I know. She has so much patience with me, you can't begin to think."

"Well, miss, and who wouldn't? to see her so patient with herself, and she in pain more than half the night through. She's the dearest child that ever a mother had."

"Does she like nice things, that's the question?" cried Uncle Ralph, heartily, taking note of Anne's quivering lip and filling eyes. "Anne, child, come here and help an old man."

"He loves to call himself old," said Anne, bustling towards him; "but there's nothing old about him, except his beard, and that's not old, only gray. I'm used to his big pockets;" she laughed, diving into their capacious depths, bringing out several bundles, which he laid upon the bed. How Tilly's eyes danced to be sure, for first of all came coveted grapes, white as pearl, and luscious as nectar. Next came four golden skinned oranges of the true Messina type, thin peel, great cells filled to bursting with honeyed syrup, and then a package of figs that were so fresh they seemed to have been picked yesterday, and packed the same day.

"O, mother, isn't he kind?" cried Tilly; "I think I never saw so many good things at a time before. Why, he's like a fairy-prince."

"It's just like him;" cried Anne, her eyes sparkling, too, "just like everything he does; you wouldn't be at all surprised, if you knew him."

"Hold there, hold hard, as the sailors say," responded Uncle Ralph; "for I fear I have not handkerchief enough to hide my blushes, if you keep on in this way. The fact is, I love to help the little folks. Consider this beard and these wrinkles all a mistake. I'm a child myself, and nothing makes me happier than to be among children; my only trouble is that my big limbs stand in the way of a frolic, or I should be up to boyish antics every day of my life, I fear. Come here, Anne darling, let Tilly eat some grapes, while you look over beyond, between these houses., and tell me what you see." "Why, grandpa!" cried Anne, in some amazement.

"Well?"

"If it wasn't so far round -- yes. I'm sure it's ours; why, grandpa!"

He smiled.

"It certainly is ours; there's Patsy in the garden now; how pretty she looks, how black and glossy!"

Tilly stopped eating the grapes.

"And our vase, I was a little uncertain, but I don't believe there are such pretty verbenas in the city. Why, I can look right over here, from our yard, and almost see you;" she cried, turning to the invalid.

"It's her mother!" cried Tilly, quite pale and breathless, dropping the fruit and clasping her hands together, "that's another mercy of the good God; it's her. O! I see you almost every day. And before ever you came here, loved you dearly."

"Indeed Tilly has talked of the young lady in the big yard over yonder, poor thing, for she watches for her day to day. It's very glad we are to find that out, miss."

"And so she has seen me," said Anne quite surprised and pleased. "How very strange! And if it's been of any good to her, how glad I am! I'm sure I never dreamed of it. And that's only a small corner of our garden; if you could but see it all, with the lovely roses, and azaleas. Our lilies are out, too. Why didn't I bring you some flowers? we have so many, I'll send a bunch over. Since we live so near each other, we must be better acquainted, you and I. 0, uncle! it's come." This last exclamation was made in a half whisper to her grandpapa, who stood by enjoying himself hugely, and pulling at his great snowy beard. He only nodded, and then looked expectantly at the door.

"You have another visitor, I think."

"Let 'em come;" said the humble woman, gathering up the sewing while, Tilly still gazed with love and admiration at her new found friend; "it's all the better for her, now the heft of the work is done."

"Yes, I am sure it will be the better for her;" murmured Uncle Ralph as a solid knock sounded. He went himself to let the visitor in. There it stood at the door, voiceless, moveless, but by one vigorous pull it entered, revealing a beautiful chair, covered with green cloth, and so easily adjusted that just by touching a spring it would wheel about at the will of the operator. Tilly's mother stood breathless, looking from the chair to Uncle Ralph. Tilly, with flushed cheeks and glistening eyes, almost devoured the beautiful thing with her glances.

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"No -- it can't be -- it can't be for me," she said with rapt gaze, and a sigh.

"Yes, it is for you," said Anne, quickly, "and nobody else but you. Our Society bought it for you, and make it a present to you, and all they ask is to see you in it."

"For me -- 0, mother, mother! what shall we say? How I can help myself! I can pay you visits, now; only think of it, wheel myself right over, no matter what part of the room you are; get anything I want that these arms will reach; why, I shall be so independent that I shall hardly know myself. I can't thank you," she added, with falling tears, turning to Anne, "I don't know what to say."

"Then don't say a word," cried Anne, laughing. "Can't you put her in it? Do," turning, to the mother. "I want her to pay me a visit," she added, pleasantly.

With a little effort the girl was lifted out of the bed, and placed in the chair. To see her glee as she found herself rolling easily over towards Anne, was something to make an angel happier. She laughed and cried, caught hold of Anne's dress and kissed it, kissed her hands, while her sweet pale face lighted up with a radiance that seemed the reflex of some shining glory, and her mother, the happiest woman at that moment in all the great city, looked on with speechless pleasure.

I've just thought," said Anne, as the two left the poor home, brimming over with gratitude.

"Of what?" asked her grandfather.

"We'll have one of our socials there."

"It would be a good idea," returned Uncle Ralph. "The poor child has so few pleasures."

"And won't she enjoy it? I don't suppose she has ever heard many stories; and such good ones, as we have."

"Spare my feelings," cried Uncle Ralph.

"I won't, you do write beautiful stories, good enough to print, and so does Aunty and Mamma May, but someway yours are the best."

"I am the oldest, and have a larger experience," he replied, "but then you are partial."

"I'll see the girls," Anne went on, "I'm sure they'll all be willing."

"Well, what great plan is about now?" queried Mamma May. "Anne hasn't said a word for the last half hour."

Anne laid her plan before her.

"A most excellent one," was the smiling assent, "and you can take your music box with you."

"Beautiful!" cried Anne. "Poor thing, she hears no music, only those dreadful organs. Why, who knows but what she may get well!"

"She certainly will be all the better for so many cheering influences, and I am glad she proves to be so sweet and gentle a girl. I will help you take care of her, and as we have some nice soup for dinner, I will send her some. We might aid her in that way every day. Her poor mother must find it difficult to supply all her wants."

"Grandpa is going to keep her in apples, and you should see how happy she was in the chair! I never saw such eyes, and to think that I have done anything towards helping her."

"It has made a large hole in your funds."

"Yes," said Anne, thoughtfully, "we've only about fifty dollars left; hardly that, for we have had several applications. What shall we do if we get out of money?"

"Make some more," said May.

"But we can't have another fair, just now, it's too warm."

"Get up a picnic," suggested Aunt Nellie, who had heard Anne's last speech.

"Capital!" cried Anne.

"Charge a good round price for tickets, and let everybody carry their own refreshments."

"O, you dear Aunt Nellie, but where shall we go?"

"Out to Linwood."

"That beautiful pond! We'll charge fifty cents for the tickets, and have it week after next. We'll have nice tickets, and I know the girls will work heard. Perhaps we shall make fifty dollars."

"I shouldn't wonder," said Aunt Nellie. "We must not read to many stories there, but just roam about, smell the pines, eat ice cream and enjoy ourselves."

"Won't it be delightful!"

Anne was in good working order that day. She was always so busy for other people, that she found no time to be miserable on account of minor troubles. The secret of her happiness was having her hands and heart full. Mary was a wise woman. She had heard somewhere in her juvenile years the once familiar couplet,

"For Satan finds some mischief still
For idle hands to do."

There never were truer words, never. Children should not be confined to hard work, but give them plenty to keep the little hands going and them little brain active. Send them out of themselves, in their dull humors; give them something or somebody to pity; let their little heads be crowded with pleasant fancies that they are of use, of importance, even if they pull up the flowers with the weeds.

At the next social the girls listened to Anne's story. At once they took an interest in the invalid and were for turning her poor room into a palace of light and beauty.

"Papa has plenty of pictures that he never means to use, I'm sure," said Kate Waters. "He will give me some, and we'll carry them to poor Tilly."

"And mamma has a great many beautiful moss baskets that she bought at auction, I'll ask her for two of them; how pretty they will look hanging up in the window!"

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"I wonder if she loves birds?" queried Nellie Maxwell. "I've got two; I love them very much, and I'm sure I don't know which one I could part with."

"I've got a cage!" cried Kate Waters. "We've never used it since the cat caught our canary, and mother can't bear the sight of it, she thought so much of Dickie. It's a dear little cage too, just large enough to hold one bird comfortably."

"It would be such a pleasure to her to take care of it!" cried Anne. "You see she could wheel herself up to the table, and put in the seed and water, and then watch the little fellow, and hear him sing -- why she would almost forget all her suffering."

"Would she like a doll, do you think?" asked another.

Anne considered and thought that she was almost too old for dolls. "She might, though like a very handsome one," she added. Whereupon the offers waxed liberal; a cat, a pet rabbit, a small dog, a library of picture books, a doll's house, a miniature stove, a toy-bedstead, being magnanimously sacrificed on the altar of benevolence. Anne ventured to suggest that it would not do to have too many mouths to feed, whereupon the owners of sundry pets breathed more freely; but it was voted unanimously that the next Saturday afternoon was to be spent in the room of Tilly, the invalid, provided the premises might be at their disposal. Anne herself went around to see. She found Tilly in her magical chair, making visits to all parts of the room, and claiming acquaintance with every stick of furniture. These "calls" were the girl's special delight, and as she wearied herself thoroughly, her nights were more comfortable than they had ever been.

"The dear thing sleeps like an infant," said her mother, appearing over a wreath of soft white steam, "and it's the chair is a blessin' and a providence. It'll add years to her life, I do think." When Anne preferred her request, the homely face beamed.

"But you're not saying, Miss Anne, that the little ladies want to come to my poor home."

"Indeed they do, Mrs. Margery, and you don't know what nice things we have. Uncle Ralph is going to take great pains, too, and write us some of his best stories. And as this is the close of the month, we're to have a little refreshment. We bring it ourselves, you know, our own cloth, and napkins, and mamma will send over the dishes if you'll kindly let us use your table. It's only a little cold chicken, with cake and some tea. We're to bring the tea and the cream, and you're to make it. Can you make good tea, Mrs. Margery?"

"None better, miss. I was nurse for years before I married, and famous for cooking the little delicacies for my good mistress; and she told me sadly I'd rue the day I got married and left a good home which perpetual it were, but I didn't, ma'am, miss, I mean, for all the hard times, for it give me her, which is a blessed angel to a mother's heart."

"I shall be so happy thinking about it," said Tilly, softly. "I know it's a poor room and we are very, very poor people; but the blessed Saviour of all was born in a worse place, and had nowhere to put his dear head. I often think of that."

"We shall enjoy ourselves a great deal better here, perhaps, than we should anywhere else," said Anne. "At any rate all the girls are very much pleased, and they want to know Tilly."

"Will the kind gentleman come with the long white beard?" asked Tilly.

"Grandpa, you like him, don't you? everybody does. Perhaps he will. How I wish you could go out to his farm in the country, you never saw the country?"

"Never -- but I shall see better than that, when all this pain of body is over."

"You must get well, first, and stay here a while," said Anne.

"Yes, it would be pleasant. I'm in no hurry, only it is all the comfort I have, to think about it when the suffering comes."

The room was as clean as busy hands could make it. The sun fairly laughed in at the shining planes of glass and the poor, well-dusted furniture. Mrs. Margery had managed to fix up a cap, and her neat, well patched dress matched the room for cleanliness.

"I'd be poor indeed, if I was dirty," she often said, "but one feels as good as rich folks, when everything is nice to the mind." And everything was nice to the mind in that poor room, for good and gentle thoughts were the companions of neatness and thrift. The harsh voice or the rash word were never heard there; the rough hard hands were used in tender offices, and God was worshipped, more truly, perhaps, than in the noblest temples that man has ever reared. Tilly, in a new white dress, the gift of Mamma May, sat in her beautiful chair, trying to be patient. Covered with a snowy cloth were sundry little parcels that had been sent in, and a charming fragrance was in the air. Tilly's eyes beamed with a calm, self contained delight. What she was to see and do, were like the visions in fairy-tales to her. She had never taken a meal with any but her mother, and now it was to be like a grand party, and receiving visitors like a lady. It was so novel to have anything akin to the pleasures of the great world about her. She had called upon every corner of the room, and seen that every stick of furniture was thoroughly prepared for her distinguished company. One and another in the old house had lent them chairs, till there were more than enough for all.

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"Dear me," she said to her mother, "we shan't know ourselves, by-and-by, we shall get so grand."

"Indeed, then, I wish we might be both rich and grand for your sake," sighed her mother.

"No, mother, never wish that; He who put us here knows what is best. See how kind He is to send us such friends; O! the kindest being, the best! the most glorious! Suppose we were to grow very rich and forget Him; and it might be, you know."

A knock announced the first visitor, it was Anne, accompanied by Nellie Maxwell, who brought the yellowest, brightest-eyed bird that you ever saw, in one of the dearest little wire cages.

"Tilly screamed with delight at sight of it. She took the cage in her lap and laughed and cried over it, hugged it, chirrupped to the bird, and thanked Nellie for bringing her such a darling to see.

"But it's yours, your own," said Nellie.

"Mine -- to keep -- mine! Do you hear, mother? She says this bird is mine, the dear little bit of gold. O, you are all too good to me, I've wanted a bird ever since I can remember, and it seems so strange to have just what I want, first the chair, and now the bird. Don't you hate to part with it? Was it yours?"

"I have another just like it," said Nellie, who had exercised a great deal of self denial in giving up Floss. "I thought it would be such a pleasure to you. Here is a pound of seed, it will last a great while, and you will enjoy taking care of it so well."

"More than I can tell," sighed Tilly, who was quite overcome with the gratitude she felt. Then the bird was placed upon the table, and immediately set up a ravishing song, full of little cunning thrills and warblings, till it seemed as if his tiny throat must be tired; but no, no sooner was he through than at it he went again, never stopping to heed the compliments showered upon him. And presently the young girls came, one after another. One brought a beautiful picture; none came empty handed, and Tilly hardly knew herself, surrounded as she was with all these tokens of sympathy and love.

They seated themselves at their work, and the little tongues began to chatter, only stopping when the sweet voice of their president was heard.

"I hope the stories came," said Tilly, timidly.

"O, yes, the stories are all here," replied Anne, lifting a little portfolio which was much swelled out, as if it had eaten a hearty meal, and was waiting patiently for digestion. Uncle Ralph had contributed two stories, and Mamma May and Aunt Nellie two. There were besides some miscellany left over from the last afternoon, when transaction of business seriously interfered with their lighter amusements.

Tilly leaned back, drawing a long breath as she looked around her. Floss was silent, for his little mistress that was, had thrown her shawl over his cage, telling him that he might sing to-morrow as much as he liked, but silence was desirable at present. So the poor bird, wondering, no doubt, at the sudden eclipse, defiantly hopped about his cage, and determinedly pecked at his seeds encouraged by the sound of voices, to believe that there was a little deception practiced in his case, and resolving, very likely, to make it up to-morrow.

Nellie Maxwell took a folded paper from her pocket, blushing as she saw Anne's eye upon her.

"It is a letter my papa wrote me when I was at school, last year. It was sent with some fine paper dollies, that mamma had cut out of fashion plates, and dressed for me. Mamma thought it would be nice to read at the social."

"And we are all ready to listen," said Anne. "I appoint you reader."

After clearing her throat, of course, the blush grew deeper and deeper, for although Nellie had been quite eager to read her father's witty letter, still it was embarrassing with all those eager faces about her. Presently she began at the title, which caused a smile.

The D. Baby Family

My darling, 'tis now evening; mamma and I are in our room, and the cheerful fire in the grate makes things comfortable and beautiful, in all respects but one, and that embraces a dear little girl whom I would rather embrace just now.

We sit as cosily as can be at the large round table, I writing to our pet, and mamma reading the papers.

Though the table is very roomy, I have but a little place to scribble in, for it is covered with all sorts of things, clippings, work basket, and materials too numerous to mention, the most prominent among which is a large family, consisting of the mamma, (widow of the late Mr. Doll Baby) her daughters, cousins, and a grandchild.

As they are about making a visit to your beautiful city, and will be your guests, I think I had better give you some idea of the party, with whom you will, no doubt, become very intimate.

Mrs. D. Baby is a lady whom you will like. (She had a beautiful satin dress, said the reader looking aside for a moment.) She is not handsome, but has a charming manner. In motherly kindness and dignity, she seems to be sixty years of age, but from her impulsive goodness of heart and great flow of spirits, I should judge she was not a day over sixteen. I have not time to enlarge upon her innumerable good qualities, and would not touch upon her imperfections, if she had any. Her eldest daughter, Ida, is a young lady of rare attainments, a ripe scholar, and highly accomplished. Her husband is at present in Paris, as an attache of the American Legation. As we are to be deprived of her society for the coming season, we naturally feel sorry, but you will be the gainer. Advise your friends not to attempt any great flights in displaying their knowledge in her presence, unless they are perfectly sure of themselves. The next eldest daughter, Miss Hattie, is stylish in her dress but never gay. I fear she has but little heart, but she is greatly admired by leading people. She talks well on all subjects, particularly politics, but does not seem to gain friends. Perhaps it is only because she is so peculiar in her tastes.

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Her sister, Miss Cornelia, is, on the contrary, one of those airy nothings who appear to live for one object alone -- dress. Not a thought beyond colors, shapes, contrasts, and "how do you think I look in it?" In truth, talking with her, one would fancy that the world was an immense millinery and dressmaker's shop, and Miss Cornelia engaged by the proprietor to act as the show figure in the window.

However, you can get along with her, if you allow yourself to be bored about fashion and frivolity. She will amuse you with a description of her trials and mishaps while learning to ride on a velocipede. I hope you will see, listen, be amused, and not learn.

Miss Madge, the youngest sister, and of course the baby of the family, is a mild, quiet bit of electricity gliding pleasantly down the stream of life, seemingly without a cloud to mar her perfect content. She is really a dear, delightful little creature, quite as sweet and innocent as she looks. Cousin Emma, her very dear friend, is her inseparable companion, and a sensible, good girl, somewhat older than Miss Madge, whose guide and confidante she is. You will notice, with what exquisite taste she dresses, very much in contrast to Miss Cornelia, the "Grecian Bender." Miss Grace is a merry bit of sunshine, a rattling tearing jolly specimen of girlhood, the possessor of as good a heart as ever went pit-pat beneath a boddice; but of course she subdues her exuberance of spirits before folks, and appears quite dignified. You will love her dearly, both for her flow of spirit and her goodness of heart.

This family of Madame D. Baby, includes Miss Eugenie, who is said to resemble the Empress of the French. She is just from Europe, where she was greatly admired. It is said that once, while riding on one of the principal boulevards, she attracted the notice of the Emperor himself. I don't know as that is anything for an American lady to boast of. Still, Miss Eugenie proves that one can be possessed of a good style, pay sufficient attention to dress, yet be, withal, sensible, charming and amiable. I commend her to you, not that you should imitate her style of dressing; for that which is becoming to one person, often looks ridiculous on another. Each is, or should be the best judge of what is fittest for her, when old enough to exercise taste and reason.

You are yet very young, and must be guided by the excellent teachers in whose care you are placed.

Miss Eugenie D. Baby has lately been quite ill, and the admirable patience and fortitude she displayed, have endeared her very much to her friends. Her docility and quiet resignation make her sick room almost pleasant, and those who took care of her, remarked that it was really no care at all. I could not help thinking, my dear, of the time you knocked the medicine out of dear old Dr. Gallipot's hand and spoiled his nice clothes. In this respect, Miss Eugenie ought to be a model to you.

And now I introduce my last young friend to your acquaintance. Miss Georgia, niece of Mrs. D. Baby, is a merry, independent, saucy, and, I fear, proud and wilful young lady, two years younger than Miss Grace. I have not been often in her society, so can't give you any description of her, except so far as looks are concerned, and we may not agree on that point. To my notion she is beautiful and accomplished, though I fear I should not dare to eat a pie of her manufacture, and am almost certain she could not make a loaf of bread, to save her life.

How lamentable it is to see young ladies growing up without any kind of useful knowledge of that kind! I had rather my daughters would be good bread-makers than fine pianists, although, I cannot see any clear reason why they cannot become both.

And now, my darling, you must not let anything I write prejudice you against Miss Georgia, or any of the D. Baby family, as you should judge of character for yourselves, and not by hearsay. And remember this, those whose conversation injures character, should never be relied upon; so always be very, careful in that respect.

You must make the acquaintance of these ladies, and in good time you will know them either to love, or if you cannot do that, treat them distantly but respectfully, without hurting their feelings. We always expect our little daughter to act in such a manner that there will be no shadow of a doubt in any one's mind as to her entire and thorough good breeding.

You must write and let us know how you like the interesting family of the D. Baby's. I trust so much style and fashion may not be hurtful to the habits of the young friends at your school, but I opine that the good advice you get from your teachers will be sufficient to counteract the influence of the gay world and all its representatives. And now, having introduced you to your new friends, the D. Baby family, and being at a loss for further news, I find the fire getting low, the room chilly, eyes growing dim, and mamma making preparations for good-night; so I feel inclined to follow suit, and retire. With many hopes that you may find your new friends quite to your mind,

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I remain, Your loving PAPA.

I, too, MAMMA.

"Isn't it droll?" cried Anne, who had listened smilingly.

"It's about dolls, isn't it?" queried Tilly, whose eyes had been intent upon the reader.

"Yes, like those," and Nellie pointed to a picture, or rather a fashion plate, hanging on the wall. "If you'd like to see them here they are," and she produced a little box, and took there-from several magnificently attired paper women, dressed in wonderful trains and flounces.

"This," she said, holding them up separately, "is Mrs. D. Baby. You see what an exquisite purple satin dress she has on, and a dear little bonnet, with three purple and white feathers. Here are her two daughters; this one in the lovely white lace dress (a bridal costume, I suppose, for she has a long white veil), is the married daughter; and these are Hattie and Cornelia. You see how very fashionable Miss Cornelia is. I think I like Madge the best. Here she is, what a pretty face, isn't it? and how simply and beautifully she is dressed. This one with the parasol in her hand, a white one lined with pink is Cousin Emma; I am very fond of her, also, and Grace, and Eugenie. I don't know but I like Eugenie a little the best, she has a good countenance, much handsomer, I think, than that of the Empress of the French, and then papa described her as being so very amiable. I don't know why it is, but I am very fond of these paper dolls, and I think I shall keep them all of my life, because of papa's letter. Madame Lisle, our principal, read it to all the school, and I sat and showed the babies as they were named, or rather I should say the ladies; their name is only Doll Baby, you know."

"Surely it's a scolard your papa must be," said Tilly's mother, smilingly, "to write such a fine letter as that."

"And now shall we have Uncle Ralph's story?" asked one of the girls, anxiously. Anne lifted the roll of manuscript, and appointing another reader, they all listened with intense pleasure, while the little lady read: --

In our humble room Uncle Sam stood, waiting for father's decision. He was a very tall man, over six feet, and had been obliged to stoop as he entered the door.

Our little wee Harry held my mother's dress in his chubby fingers, and looked in awe at the hard face of Uncle Sam. It was a hard face. Not one line of tenderness softened it. He never smiled, but seemed to me, as he always had, grim and forbidding. But little Harry, oh, a dear, sweet fellow he was, a loving, darling little cherub. I cannot tell you how loving and beautiful, because he was my own little brother, and you never saw him.

I may, however, say that he had glorious blue eyes, the color of a pure sky; long yellow rings of fine fair hair, that it was my enviable office to curl in the morning, and which the sun used to love to turn with shining gold; and an expression upon the beautiful features as calm, as sweet, as heavenly, almost as an angel's face.

My beautiful, and my seraph, my darling, were the pet names which I called him.

And this boy, this idol of our hearth-stone, Uncle Sam wanted to take away with him. He was a stern man, and some years before had married a stern woman, and these two stern people had no children to make their hard hearts human. They loved money, and had all they wanted, and more than they needed, a great deal more.

My heart swelled with grief and indignation. I did not dare then to speak aloud, but I thought thus: --

"You tell us we are poor, and offer to take what, in your ignorance, you call a burden from us. You claim the darling of our hearts, wee Harry, the beautiful, laughing, loving sunbeam.

"You hard man, you are rich. You see that we are struggling with narrow means, sickness, trouble. Why don't you give us of your great abundance?

"How can you see your own brother, your less fortunate relative, sitting there crippled and sorrowful, and instead of sharing with him all the goods of life, offering to take the very pulse of our hearts, the dear baby who sweetens our toil with his smiles, and say coldly, 'It will lessen your expenses.'

"And what else will it lessen!" my soul cried, angrily, "our hopes, our joys, our love. You want him for your own. We must never say, 'brother,' 'son;' he must never says 'sister,' 'father,' 'mother.' You would teach him to forget, to despise our poor home. You would clothe him, rear him in splendor, and our 'sunbeam' would be forever lost to us."

"It would be better for my boy's future, I suppose," said father, faintly. He was so weakened by illness, and long and bitter struggling against poverty, that he had no strength left to fight this new enemy of our peace.

"O, but my own boy, my darling Harry! I can't give him up," said my mother, her eyes dry and shining.

"Yes, but, my dear," said my father, "we must think of the child's future. What can I do for him, sick and helpless."

I was wrought almost to frenzy. I ran to the dear child and caught him in my arms; his dimpled fingers closed about my neck.

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"Darling," I cried, "ask papa if he can have the heart to give you away, the pride and joy of us all! Ask him who will kiss him in the morning and soothe him with sweet baby songs! Ask him if he can bear to miss the sweet red lips, and to hear the pretty voice calling for him, and then think that it will never greet him again. For you will be dead to us, baby, dead! I had rather you were carried out in your little coffin, and then under the green sod though you might be, we could still call you ours. Darling, tell him that sister will work for you, cheerfully, happily. Tell him not to fear, for that Providence that protects the very sparrows, will provide for his little boy. Tell him that I shall die if I miss my blessed baby's voice, singing about the house. Tell him to say no, darling; tell him to say no!"

How still it was, only for my passionate sobbing! The child put his dimpled fingers just under one eye, and then under the other, to wipe away the tears I could not keep back. His red lips quivered at sight of my grief, and like the sweetest music his dear voice sounded.

"No, papa, say no; Tilly 'ant you to."

My father broke down then, and wept like a child. My mother snatched the sweet child to her bosom.

"God gave him to me," she said, "as a gift from heaven," and, with a great sob, "none else shall take him away.

"Very well," there was a red spot on Uncle Sam's cheek, and a glitter that was not of blessed tears in his eyes. "Very well, John, I made you the offer in good faith. I would have aided you in more ways than one, but since you choose otherwise, good-by;" and he was gone. I fell upon my father's neck and kissed him. "Don't be afraid, father," I said, "God will help us. He will care for little Harry -- He has promised -- He will do better by our darling than any rich uncle can do. He will make him an honor and a blessing to us all. You are not sorry, dear father!"

"I thought of the child's good," he said, softly, -- "but -- I am glad he is gone alone; yes, very glad; we should have missed him so. But it was a sore temptation; we are very poor; and I can't bear to see your mother and you slave yourselves to death."

"O, if that is all," and I laughed heartily, joyously out of the fullness of my breast. "I think my work would kill me, if it wasn't for God and Harry; but when I get thinking of them, my tired arms grow strong and the sound of the mighty machinery is like music. When I come home, no matter how tired, at the prattle of baby's voice every ache goes out of my limbs. He rests me like music as I clasped him to my heart. He is sent like a blessed angel to cheer and enliven our poverty.

"Yes, yes, yes," said my father, smiling.

"But why don't Uncle Sam help you in some other way?" I asked, after a pause. "He has more money than he knows what to do with. No; he craves the sunshine even of this poor home; he can see you suffer, and yet draw the string of his purse more tightly."

My father shook his head. Then he said to himself softly,

"Poor Joe! poor Joe!"

"You mean Uncle Joe?"

"Yes, he was so different from Sam. His money was always shared with me. He never could enjoy a thing, poor fellow, unless I helped him -- poor Joe!"

"He went to sea, didn't he?" I asked, glad to divert his thoughts from himself.

"Yes; they called him wild and reckless, perhaps he was, and Sam was always steady and proper; never was punished; never went a hair's breadth from the line of decorum, and yet I loved Joe the best, loved him something as you love that youngster there.

He was impulsive and daring, he would do all manner of foolish things and get into no end of scrapes, and still every body seemed to forgive Joe, and prophesy better things of him."

"Where is he now, father, do you know?"

"If alive, I sometimes fear the worst for him, child; but I think he is dead. I heard that the ship be sailed in, eleven years ago, went down in a fearful storm; but vague hopes were entertained that some of the ship's company were saved. I don't know; I should surely have heard from him, I think, if he had been in the land of the living."

"He gave me a gold chain while I was still a baby."

"Yes, he was always giving."

Evening had come; the fire burned as cheerily in our little grate as if it had beamed upon rich furniture and costly carpets. The table bad been drawn back, and a little stand substituted, with THE BOOK upon it, from which my father always read aloud.

Harry lay in my arms, his blue eyes wondrous wise; his golden curls shining with a living light, as they coiled over my arms and hung along my white home apron. His wee, pink toes peeped from beneath a snowy, scant night dress. I was gazing at him, thankful that the prayer of the rich man had not prevailed.

Father had just opened the Book, mother had seated herself with a look at Harry which my full heart interpreted, when a carriage rolled up to the door. Then there was a heavy knock, an entrance, and a quick step on the stairs.

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"What was the use of waiting?" cried a hearty, cheery voice, as the door flew open.

"Jack, old boy," cried a bronzed man, coming forward, "just look at me. Don't you say you don't know me, though, as Sam did, for I won't believe I've so much changed as that. I'm Joe; the hearty old Joe -- bless Heaven! and you are sick, eh! Well, I've got a sovereign panacea."

By this time he had both my father's hands in his, the great, black-bearded, tanned sailor, and was down on his knees beside him.

"I've come home with plenty of rocks, old fellow, and, by Jove, we'll go shares. That's not swearing, I hope, for I've knocked that habit off. That pretty girl is yours, eh? and that beautiful boy? And Em's sweet face is a little paler, though not much older. I've come to adopt the whole family. I've seen Sam, scolded because he wanted you to give him your small boy there, and you wouldn't do it. That's right, heart of oak! that's my boy. I told him I'd a better plan than that afoot -- that I should adopt you all.

"What! crying? why, bless me," and he dashed his own handkerchief across his eyes, "I don't believe you're glad to see the old scapegrace -- the runaway. But, Lord love ye, I've earned the right to a universal brotherhood. The old sinner has gone, and a new man stands in his place; my Father has sent me to care of some of His children, and their names happened to be just like my own."

It was a curious scene. As for me I could do nothing but hug little Harry to my heart, and thank God, with all my soul.

Uncle Joe was the dearest, cheeriest, happiest man I ever saw in my life.

I was not to go to the factory again, he said, for he had work enough to keep me busy for a year; he wanted exactly one thousand shirts made, and if I had a mind to take the contract I might have them all and farm them out, as he expressed it.

How busy he was, all the following week! A new house was hunted up, new furniture put in it, the cellar was stocked with wood and coal enough to last two years. My father, cheered by such timely help, left his rheumatic chair, gathered up his strength, and walked. My mother grew healthy and young again, and I never knew what it was any longer to have every bone in my body ache.

Uncle Joe's story was a strange one, but I must tell it some other time. Harry is now eighteen, and a boy to be proud of -- while the poor child adopted by Uncle Sam, is fast going the downward road to ruin. I often think, what if it were Harry! and my heart goes out in gratitude to God that he has kept him, and kept us all in safety.

Everybody was delighted with Uncle Ralph's story, and Tilly, who was quite the happiest girl among them all, as one might see by her shining eyes.

"I wonder if it is all true?" she asked.

"Grandpa says he always has facts to build upon," said Anne, "and I guess some of it is true."

"It's half past two," said Kate Waters, looking at her watch.

"You'll tell me when to make the fire and set the kettle to boil, rejoined Tilly's mother, intent upon doing her part towards the entertainment.

"O, yes, it won't be time for hours yet. Are you tired, Tilly?"

"Tired, oh, no; I was never so happy in my life. I thank you all for your great kindness very much."

"And now shall I give you Mamma May's story next?" asked Anne, and Miss Kate will read. So the next story in order was called.

Aunt Mercy, in the court, over there, says "it's all right," everything, I suppose she means; but if it is all right, everything, I don't see why I should be so unhappy and miserable.

All right, everything; let me see. In the first place my father was a wicked man; yes, he must have been, for I have heard tell how drunk he got, and quarrelled with everybody about him, though he was a scholar and a gentleman, once.

Then he had an awful fall, and laid in a hospital for six months, which kept him from drink, and from treating mother and me cruelly. Then mother was attacked with a fever, and laid all alone till she was too far gone to help and she died and I was taken by somebody, I don't know who. I wonder why I lived!

Aunt Mercy said I was treated badly, and she don't see bow I escaped being killed altogether, for few children were as dreadfully treated as I was. I can remember to this day how I was beat round by an old French woman. She used to go picking rags and all sorts of things out of the streets, and when she had been drinking gin or brandy it used to seem to be her delight to knock me about. I've got scars on my head, and my arms, and all over me. Once she put a coal of fire on my foot, right on the bare flesh and make me keep still by brute force.

It's no wonder I feel as if I'd never had a childhood, is it? Childhood! I marvel what it means sometimes. To be sure, I could go and look in at the shopwindows, and see the pretty dolls, and all the playthings that I shouldn't have known how to use, and sometimes, though I'm seventeen now, my fingers itch to have a doll in my hands to play with.

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My heart was always hungry, ever since I can remember, for something to love, or to love me, and I'd take a half-dead kitten to my bosom, but how could I feed it? I've done that more than once, and wept bitterly when the poor thing was dead.

It seems as if everything I love dies; but then Aunt Mercy says, "it's all for the best."

I think I said I was seventeen. For five years I have lived out; I was in the Home till I was twelve, put there when I was seven. I learned to read, and write, and work there, but because I was a plain child, nobody seemed to care much for me.

There were certain days when the Home was open to visitors. O, then, how I tried to make myself look pretty. But where was the use? My hair would be red and my face freckled, and my hands large and coarse. It didn't help the matter any by putting them under my apron, they had to be pulled out.

I used sometimes to see the matron and the teachers, on the sly, kissing some of the little girls -- and petting them, but who could blame them, for they were the pretty ones. It seemed as if they never would have any trouble, no matter what they did. And when people came there to adopt children, and many of them got comfortable homes in that way, there'd be pretty Bessie and Daisy with their lovely curls, and eyes, and hands, and feet, as beautiful as they could be. People, maybe, don't think that children hear and notice what they say, and dream, and think of it afterwards, but they do, oh! yes, I know they do. I remember what one man said, "I couldn't have that child's face opposite me at the table," and I know he meant me, though he tried to turn my attention away. Didn't I want to sink into the earth, then. I'd have covered my face all over with a mask if I could, I seemed so hateful to myself. I have cried and sobbed for hours, because I felt that people could not love my face.

Pretty Bessie, I won't envy her, poor child, for she was as sweet as a buttercup. How could people help loving her? There was no trouble in finding her a pleasant home, and love, and tenderness. A fair-faced lady fancied her, one day. She had no children, she said, and must take Bessie. So Bessie went in a beautiful carriage, and I watched it gliding down the long street, with wretched feelings. Not that I envied Bessie, oh I no; I was fond of her, with everybody else; I was pleased with her lovely face, and graceful clinging ways. In a month from that time, the sweet pale lady brought Bessie to see us; that was very kind, but we should hardly have remembered that we ever saw her beautiful face before, she was dressed in such a lovely manner. Her little gown was of sky-blue silk with white trimming, and I never saw anything half so sweet as her little hat full of roses.

But that wasn't the best of it. The sweet lady seemed to love her so dearly, and everybody fondled and kissed her. O, that was the best of it ! My mouth watered to see it, and though I tried very hard to be pleased, something did so cry out in my heart that I had to go away by myself And I missed all the nice fruit the kind lady sent, for they called me sullen, and said my disposition was bad, and that I was an envious girl.

O, if anybody had kissed me, then, I think, I'd been willing to die.

So time went on, and nobody wanted me for a pet. I grew a great girl, and strong, and my hands were only fit for flat irons, and mops, and broom handles; so I did as much work as most girls of my age. It seemed to ease that gnawing and craving within me.

"She's not at all nice looking, but she's a beautiful worker," the matron used to say to me. Sometimes I'd think the least love would turn me pretty, but I was so silent, that I suppose it was hard to care for me.

Alas! who ever dreamed that what befel dear little Bessie could ever, ever happen. Once more the sweet-faced lady came to the Home, but, oh! dear, she was dressed in the deepest black, and little Bessie with her pretty face and winning smiles had gone away from her. I mean the good God had taken her up to heaven with himself, the matron said, but that was a sad day. I overheard the lady telling one of the matrons, with tears and sobs, how long Bessie had been sick, and what an angel of patience she had been. But someway it seemed sad that Bessie must leave that splendid home, for I'd not the least idea what heaven was.

That night I had a dream. I thought I died, and waked up somewhere on the edge of a stream where flowers were growing at my feet. The atmosphere and the place were full of splendors, and the air seemed to penetrate me as with a current of rapture that with each motion made me happier and happier. But the flowers were so beautiful, their colors so vitals that I cried out,

"I never smelt such sweetness."

And some one said, "Tread on the flowers."

Then I thought I put my foot on them, crushing them down, and the whole air became filled with a heavenly perfume.

Just then I saw Bessie, as radiant as a queen. She floated towards me, smiling, her eyes full of love, and cried out to me, "O, Jenny, how beautiful you are."

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And I answered, "It must be your love that makes me so. I always said if only somebody would love me, I should grow beautiful."

Then I waked up, oh! so disappointed! But I always seemed to feel as if I had really been to heaven for a few minutes, after that.

Aunt Mercy stands to it that my dream meant something; that if I am good and true-hearted, the more I am tried, the better and purer I shall grow; giving sweets to others, as the flowers I trod on did to me. Perhaps -- and yet, I don't know.

I was just turned thirteen, when, at last, somebody wanted me. It was not because I was handsome, though, but because I could work. And oh! didn't they grind me? I had to do the washing and ironing, and scrub and scour and slave.

All this I should not have minded much if once in a great while they had given me a pleasant word, but that I never heard. The old gentleman (and his hair was as white as silver too,) used to swear at me, till my ears ached, for such little things! I always wanted to tell him my dream when he got in a passion, and ask him if he thought he was fit to go among pure angels and good spirits. At last he struck me over the head with his cane, and I couldn't bear that, so I ran away, ran back to the Home, and they received me, and pitied me; for the blue welts laid on my neck and shoulders then like great cords.

I had pretty much given up the notion that any one would ever love me, and consequently I formed a little world of my own. In this little world I imagined I had a mother, the sweetest looking woman I could picture, and a favorite sister whom I called Bessie, and a dear friend who loved me wonderfully, better than all the beauties living; but he was an extraordinary being, fit only to live in dreamland.

And so when they thought I was silent and stupid about my work, I was holding delightful conversations with my dear mother, whom I would never let do the least work, only knit sometimes; and I loved to picture her sitting at her ease and reading, while I toiled for her.

My lover was away all day. It was only when twilight came, and I stole by myself, that he would meet me. I remember the little bower I used to feign to go when he came. It was set in such a lovely garden! something like that heaven full of flowers that I had seen in my dreams. And he would tell me of the world outside, how he had been laboring for me; and then he would sing and play upon the piano, guitar and harp; for he was wonderously gifted, this airy lover of mine. And he would gather flowers for me, and make a wreath, and when I did not wish him to throw it over my hair because I was homely, he would always say, "But you are beautiful to me."

That made my heart beat and my eyes fill with tears. That satisfied the old longing in my soul, -- "you are beautiful to me."

I don't think we ever met together in that lovely trysting place, but he would repeat those words till I forgot, when in my little world, that I was ugly, and that my hair was red, and my face freckled.

I carried my world with me to the next place. It was not so hard for me there, though there was a cross, fretful old body to take care of, who always called me "stupid."

"What are you dreaming about now, stupid?" she would cry, "I never saw such a dolt. You are always in a brown study, and it tires me to look at you. Stop your dreaming."

Stop my dreaming! Give up my sweet, tender mother, my darling sister, my glorious, impossible lover! And I smiled to think how utterly impossible it was. I could bear cross speeches, rough usage -- but my dear day-fancies -- I could not part with them.

It is a year ago today since I wrote the lines above. The trees are talking to me, the sunshine comes in glorifying any pleasant room, while I sit and read them over, patiently, and then hasten to sit down and say, "it is all for the best -- everything!"

What if my birth was mean, and my childhood incomplete and suffering? Have I not wings folded up in my soul? Shall I not sing of God's merciful goodness in heaven?

And then my patient has grown kinder and more gentle. My precious dream-mother has faded a little, and I am confounded, sometimes, to find this old, angular countenance of the woman I live with taking her place.

My sweet Bessie is still sweet, gentle, beautiful, and I often open my heart to her, as of old; but I am astonished -- I say I cannot help, sometimes, being overwhelmed with astonishment, when I think that my impossible and gifted lover has given way to plain John Williams. Yes, plain, and angular, and not at all accustomed to the airy notes of music. I could laugh at the idea, he with his square fingers, horny with honest labor. But he is good and great in his honest, simple soul, and has grand thoughts for the world, and tender ones for me.

Yes, John is the grandson of the old lady I have been taking care of, and who, not long ago, adopted me as her dear daughter -- think of that! as her dear daughter!

And she is very glad that John loves me, and says I have no idea how much I have altered since then.

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I knew it! I was sure that if some one would only love me, I should lose my ugly face.

I can see it myself, sometimes, for there's a light in my eyes that makes my heart beat with pleasure, when I look at myself in the mirror. Ah! I see love! love! and happiness there. I see hope in the beautiful future, a life here of hoping and helping, of waiting and working and whatever comes, I'll believe in Aunt Mercy's motto till I die -- "It's all for the best."

This little story produced a profound impression upon the audience.

"I wonder who she was?" cried Tilly. "I know she lived and suffered, I know she did. I have felt just as she did."

"But it don't seem for the best when people suffer all their lives," said Kate Waters.

"Don't you know?" queried Tilly, gravely, "what she said? We all have wings in our souls? I've thought of that often, and if all eternity is so impossible to comprehend, and we're to live and be happy forever and ever, what does it signify?"

The child looked beautiful with her glowing eyes and crimsoned cheeks. There she sat before them a living example of that hope and patience of which they had been reading. For years she had not used her feet; for years, brain and arms only had been active in that poor, crippled body, and wearisome hours had she passed, her only sources of pleasure the narrow strip of garden where she could catch the color of tree and flower, and the books, and the kind words of a few good friends, who called in to while away her loneliness.

"Then you think it's for the best that you are sick all the time?" said Nellie Maxwell.

"Sure does she," spoke up her mother, briskly, "and she puts me to shame often, my own child, that she do. For I worry about it, and pine and fret, but she always has the smile, and the word of cheer, always. It's I that have the lack of faith, not she."

"Another story, young ladies," said Anne, rattling the manuscript; "time is passing. Who will read this one, written by Aunt Nellie? I appoint Rose Allen."

Rose, a pretty girl of thirteen, and one of the best readers in the little association, went forward without hesitation, and took her seat at the table, while Tilly looked forward with eager interest to the story, entitled --

I should like something so entirely different from anything I ever heard of, for my birth-day present," said Eva Dimple, standing in the midst of a group of school girls.

"I wonder what you will get?" queried Janet McComb, looking curiously at her. "You are an only child, and your parents are rich. Why! in all these birth-days you must have received -- everything,"

"How would you like an ourangoutang?" asked Hattie Green, with a smile, not lifting her eyes from her knitting. My Cousin Henry is expected home before New Year's, and he promised to bring me one."

"It would be a change, at least," laughed Eva, verifying her name as the dimples broke over cheek and chin.

"I could treat you to a dried alligator, or a South American water-horse," said Janet, "but as papa is only a poor country doctor, I'm afraid I couldn't do better."

"Give me one of your beautiful water colors, Janet, that will please me above all things," said Eva. "It don't matter how poor one is, if one only has genius, I think."

Hattie looked up with a quick, pleased smile, but was silent.

"Pray, Eva, what did you have for your last year's present?" asked one of the girls.

"A walnut set for my room, a sewing machine, and a new grand piano."

There was a general exclamation.

"And the year before?"

"My first set of nice furs, a music box, and a splendid edition of Shakespeare. Every year, of course, as I grow older and more valuable, I have finer presents. I wonder what I shall have this year?"

"Have you set your heart upon anything?" asked Hattie, in her usually grave way.

Eva shook her head.

"I did begin to long for a real camel's hair shawl, but mamma never likes me to have extravagant things in the way of dress. I may, possibly, have another set of furs, but my old ones are still good. I shall be sure to have some new stereoscope views, because I always do, and as Uncle George will be home from Paris just in time, I think it likely he will remember me."

"O, of course he will; dear me, how nice it must be to be an only child!"

Eva's face saddened a little; "I would give all my fine things for a brother or a sister," she said, after a moment's pause. "Dearly as I love mamma and papa, I do so dread being at home without a companion of my own age. It will be very lonesome to me, after I graduate, I am so accustomed to all your society. Wherever I see two sisters together, or a brother and sister sharing each other's joys and sorrows, I can hardly help crying. But bow silly I am!" and she wiped a few tears from her eyes, "It must best for me, or it would be other-wise."

"We'll all be your sisters," cried Hattie. "I don't wonder you feel lonesome; what should I do without Charley? I don't care so much for girls, but to have a brother, of whose progress you are proud, and who, you know, loves you dearly, that is something to be proud of."

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"I'm sure I ought to be proud then," piped up Tilly Marsh, one of the younger scholars "for I've got seven and they tease me almost to death. You're welcome to either one of them, Miss Eva."

There was a general laugh at this, and poor little Tilly looked frightened and shrank away.

"I'm sure I'm very much obliged to you," said Eva, "only, you know, I'd rather have one of my own."

"You get seven presents then, of course, when your birthday comes round," queried Hattie, "don't you?"

"O no," responded the child, "three of them are married, and have all they can do to give presents to their wives," -- which raised another laugh -- "but then," added Tilly, quietly, "the others sometimes give me two apiece. I don't think married brothers are of much account."

"Then I devoutly hope I shall be married before Charley is;" laughed Hattie. "But there's the bell, -- come girls."

A few days after this conversation, a bronzed and bearded man stood in the parlor of his brother's house. He was a genuine Dimple. There was the broad clear forehead; the genial face, with the dents that went so deep in chin or cheek whenever he spoke or laughed. There was the healthy, happy temperament, showing itself in all he said and did.

"I knew when Eva's birthday came, you see," he said, opening a box and displaying its Parisian wonders. First, there was a watch, one of the tiniest things that could well be manufactured, set round with diamonds; then came bracelets to match, and a brooch that was a wonder.

"I knew she had a watch," he went on, "but this took my fancy so irresistibly, that I had to buy it. And then, if she goes to Paris with me, as you say she may, if she wishes to, why I want her to look as well as the best. I suppose you have something handsome for her."

Mr. and Mrs. Dimple looked at each other and smiled.

"It is a secret," said the latter.

"O, something pretty nice, I suspect," he said.

"Something that may interfere with her journey to Paris, perhaps."

"That's not fair," said her brother, but they held their own counsel.

The day came for leaving school, and there were wet eyes, and tear stained faces, for the girls in the senior class were very much attached to each other. Eva had passed the trying ordeal of delivering the valedictory, and with credit.

Very beautiful she looked in her dress of spotless white, one white rose placed in her dark curls, the modest color in her fair young cheeks deepening as she met the gaze of the crowd, indulgent though it was.

And this was her last day as a student. Many a pretty keepsake she put away in her trunk shedding silent tears over them, as the thought crossed her mind she might never see the donors again.

And now she was at home, in that splendid but lonely house. Her father, whose idol she was, was, at the same time, a grave, reserved man, who seldom showed his love in words or caresses; her mother had for long years been an invalid, but it was a pleasure to see the perfect content into which she seemed to settle, as she felt that Eva was at home once more, and for good. And the young girl as she looked on the pale, spiritual face, said to herself that she would do her best to make her mother happy, for she had no one else to get up small comforts for her.

So she gathered flowers for the table and for her mother's room every day; read aloud patiently the books her mother liked, and still kept up some of her more important studies; took long walks with her uncle, practiced her music diligently, and waked up on her birthday morning with a consciousness that the world was very beautiful, and books and men must be mistaken when they discoursed as they did about broken hearts and nameless sorrows.

The night before she had given a delighted consent to travel with her uncle and see the city of cities, great Paris of the moderns.

Wondering what her birthday gifts would be she descended to the breakfast-room to receive the usual congratulations. Her uncle was ready with his presents, her father gave her a delicate inlaid writing-desk, in which were placed a costly set of writing materials, but her mother only smiled and said, you shall see my gift by-and-by.

After breakfast a carriage stopped at the door and Eva took a long drive with her uncle. On her return she went to her mother's room, and paused on the threshold surprised at the change she saw in her. The invalid's usually pale cheeks were flushed, and her eyes sparkled with excitement, and as she tenderly kissed her child, she said, in a trembling voice, "Are you ready to see mother's gift to you, now?"

Eva eagerly assented and was directed to go to her own room. She hurried thither, opened the door, looked about, and then with quickened breath went forward.

For there on a fairy-like couch, laid a beautiful little girl of three years, fast asleep, her cheeks, twin roses; her golden hair flecking the pillow-like sunbeams, her small dimpled hands lying on the innocent breast, the posture graceful as only childhood can assume, and at her feet an open note which read as follows

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"I am your birthday gift if you will have me. My father is dead, and my mamma is in heaven, too; I am a little orphan girl, without brothers or sisters. Will you take me, keep me, care for me, and love me? If so, I will be your own little Daisy and take you for my own dear, dearest mamma."

Near by was a child's wardrobe, full of beautiful tiny dresses.

Eva stood for a moment like one in a dream, her eyes growing brighter and brighter, her lips quivering. Then she flew to her mother again.

"O, is it real?" she cried, "is that little angel to be mine, really my own? What a glorious birthday gift! O, mother, I can't realize it!"

Her mother explained that the babe was her cousin's child, that the father had died before its birth, that the mother had just died before Eva left school, commending the little one to her care, and how she had planned this surprise and present. "But are you willing to give up your trip to Paris?" she asked.

"Yes, indeed," said Eva, eagerly; "everything, for that sweet little angel. But, mamma, what a solemn responsibility it will be. I shall have a human soul to train."

"Yes, still I can trust you," was the smiling reply, "only try to live so as to be worthy of the charge."

I don't believe there was ever a happier girl than Eva Dimple that day, and for days and years afterward, for the little Daisy was her chief delight, and a better guardian no child could have.

"We are all pleased with that, I know, said Anne, looking over her papers, "but the chief characters of all our stories have been girls. There's one little thing here about a boy. Grandfather wrote it one evening when he was at our house, and says every bit of it is true, and Granby is scarcely a mile from the farm. Perhaps we can get an idea from it for our picture. If you please, I will read it. It is entitled,

I want to have a good time, but I've only got five dollars," mused Granville Heth. "What's a boy to do with five dollars?"

"I'll tell you," said Joe Sickles. There are ten fellows beside you and I, who want to camp out. If we all give five dollars apiece, and of course we can, we might hire a tent, go over to Granby by wagon, buy the things we need to eat, camp out near the beach and have a first-rate time."

Granville looked thoughtful.

"But there are no conveniences," he said. "We ought to have some kind of a house to sleep in, and, besides, we should't have decent food for a week."

"We could have the best of food, and tip-top cooking if Ben Norris goes along. He's as neat and handy as a woman, and can cook better than any body I ever knew."

"But then how are we going to get a fire out in the fields? And how are we going to sleep with any comfort? We should be eaten up with mosquitos. There are so many difficulties in the way."

"Conquer the difficulties; meet them, and they're half conquered already. You may be sure that we can find both comforts and conveniences."

The boys were walking back and forth in the long side yard

"Hallo!" cried Joe Sickles, "I've got an idea."

They stopped before an old, cast-off cooking stove that had been taken out of the cellar to be sold for old iron. The top was broken entirely off, and leaned over on the ground.

"There's our fire!" cried Joe, triumphantly. "Don't you see? We take this top along, with plenty of pans and kettles, set him up over two rocks, place your wood and kindlings underneath, and presto! there's your cooking stove made to order. That's the talk."

"It is rather brilliant," said Granville, smiling.

"It will be brilliant, if it isn't now, when we get a lot of fish over it, of Ben Norris's cooking -- and chowder. I tell you, you never saw such a fellow for chowders as Ben Norris."

"And now I've an idea," said Granville. "Suppose we ask Fred Cook, poor fellow! He's just up from a long sickness, and such a trip will put him on his legs. One more won't break us."

"True enough," was the response, and that night Fred Cook, the only son of a poor widow, was invited to join the camping out. How his wan and pallid cheeks flushed at the sweet surprise! How his eyes sparkled!

It was a splendid day when the two carts drove up to the old squire's house full of boys and bundles. There was the tent-side sticking out; there were baskets of potatoes and onions, turnips, beets, two large hams, a side of pork. Fruit and milk and butter they were to get from the neighboring, farmhouses. Fred, the invalid, was packed away in the easiest seat, and every one of the dozen boys had some little comfort arranged for him.

Such a turning out when the party arrived at Granby! Such a yelling and tumbling, and shouting, as the baskets were unpacked; and such an enthusiastic cheer when the old, rusty stove-top was set upon two rows of rocks, and found to answer admirably for all the purposes of cooking.

Then the tent was arranged; they were only to sleep in that, and the ground was covered knee-deep with fragrant hay, on which blankets and comforts were spread. So clean and roomy and comfortable it looked that the boys set up another extatic shout when all was finished. What a glorious night they anticipated. And so it was. The moon lighted the wide ocean and all the surrounding scenery, while within the tent a dozen boys, who had "turned in" an hour before, were manfully and industriously employed in slapping their hands and faces, for an army was upon them; they had not guarded themselves against mosquitos. The ravenous insects were too much for them, they drove them down to the beach, and there the morning found them perched about, here and there, quite disheartened for want of sleep.

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Most human ills can be conquered, however, if they are taken in time, and the mosquitos were vanquished by gunpowder.

Ben Norris drilled the boys like a true leader.

Each lad washed his own dishes. They took turns in going for water, cleaning vegetables, fishing, bargaining with the butcher, who brought them meat every other day.

To cap the climax of this delightful "camping out," an unexpected party of thirty people, large and small, took them by surprise one morning, with plenty of pies, puddings, cold meats and jellies.

Wasn't there a chowder manufactured on that day that beat the hotels? It filled the three biggest kettles, which had to be set near their impromptu table, and the savory mess was served out in all sorts of dishes.

Nothing marred their pleasure that week of weeks. No shower came up, indeed they rather longed for that event. The fish seemed eager to be taken; Ben Norris was one of the best of cooks; Fred, the invalid, grew quite ruddy, so that when he returned, one would hardly have taken the sunburned lad for the pale stripling who went to Granby.

Ben Norris is to get up another party, and they are going to camp out for two weeks.

"What a good time boys do have!" cried Tilly. "And I'm sure I shall always remember Granville, for being so kind. I could imagine just how the poor, sick boy felt when they invited him. Don't you think if every body was so thoughtful," and her eyes beamed with gratitude, "we should have a lovely world?"

"I am sure we should," said Anne, hastening to the door at the sound of a knock she knew. Yes, it was as she expected, there stood Uncle Ralph stroking his great gray beard and two smiling faces peeped over his shoulder.

"May we come in?"

"You know you are always welcome, grandpa," said Anne, and there was a flutter of delight at his entrance.

"So good Mrs. Margery is making the fire," said Uncle Ralph, saluting them all.

"I'm sure I'm proud and happy of the honor," murmured the humble woman, with a curtsey. "And she's so happy!"

"Well, yes, we seem to have come upon rather a happy company," said Uncle Ralph, seating himself. "I have just parted from a friend," he continued, "lately from England, and he gave me a story from his pen, which pleased me so much that I wanted to come right over and read it at the Social.

"O, Uncle Ralph, do, please do!" was the general cry.

"Yes, Uncle Ralph, we're not through our work yet, there is half an hour before tea. By that time the kettle will be boiling," said another.

"Very well, as you all look so eager I suppose it is the universal wish, so I'll comply. My story is just about half an hour long. The locality is in England, where people talk and act a little different from what they do in America, and it is entitled --

Well, how old are I? Most 'leven, thankee. How long have I been on the streets? Don't know, allays, I 'spects. I don't remember scarcely nothin' else. Buy any matches, any matches? Do I git tired? Well, would you git tired a walkin' up an' down, an' over an' across, the cold wind cuttin' through into ye that way, it's like knives to think of? And maybe it's a storm. Don't talk to me about gittin' tired. I ain't got no umbril, I aint, and if I had, I wouldn't git time to open it, nor yet go alone, with every body pushing it into your eyes. No, I goes independent, and if I gets tired I don't cry about it. When it rains, why then I'm here, in course, and though I gits under doorways, when I can, there ain't mostly no doorways, but shops, where I walks, with the p'leece-man hanging about, cryin' 'git out o' that there.' It's wery hard on a cove when it rains, 'specially if he ain't got no shoes. Some coves is so precious lazy they can't get shoes, but I ain't one o' them kind, I ain't. I'm one o' your spry sort, always slippin' under people's heels; and I knows the tired dodge, though I never goes the whine, cos why? I'm independent, I am. What's the tired dodge? Well, you jest take your stand on the street by seven, and holler an' run, an' talk about your matches, and ask every body that comes along and be sure they're all going to tell you to 'git out!' and you'll know what the tired dodge is, by the time it comes round seven again. Not that I doesn't take care o' myself; I alleys gits a meat pie if nothin' else, and I keeps all the rest of the money for Lady Nelly.

Who's Lady Nelly? Why she's a glorious one with gold hair. I never looks into them shops where the toys stands all shining, and see them dolls dressed fit for the Lord Mayor's show, but I feel as if I'd like to be one, if I could only be give to Nelly. But I takes care of her decent. I'll tell you how it is, if you won't mind my walking along with you a bit. I live down in Wynch Mew's. (Mews is a narrow by street, my dears, said Uncle Ralph, looking up.) That's my place, I've got a room there, and I pays for it. I ain't a cove as sleeps in market-places and under bridges, an' anywheres I can creep into. I'm independent, I am. I was born in the matches line, but that's no reason I should stay in it, is it? My daddy used to make 'em and I'd do a bit at 'em before I could walk. My mother died when I was born, and my daddy brought me up by hand. There was a little too much hand, sometimes, when daddy had been drinking, but perhaps it helped make me independent. Well, you see, my daddy, he up and took sick. 'Twas hard the poor old soul couldn't lay easy in his bed as it were, but were all the time a roamin' and a roamin' and crying out his matches beautiful to the last. I've seen him as he lay on his bed, actually a beggin' of somebody, holding him, imaginary, by the coattail, an' whinin' to that extent that I would a been ashamed of him if he had been well.

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"Here's the last," he would cry, the very last -- ha'penny for the lot. Don't let me go home to my wife and children a starvin'." (Which he was delirious when he uttered it, for he allays said to me, "Dick, be honest, and die poor, for it's agin the Scripters for a rich man to git to heaven.") But I was goin' to tell you about Nelly. Father wasn't more than decent buried, before somebody came to look at the room. He was a tall, pale man, as had sunk eyes an' holler cheeks, but his eyes were as black as black could be, an' his cheeks were as red as two roses. The room wasn't much to boast of, to be sure, but it were home to me, an' I hated to leave it. There were a bed in it, an' two chairs, and precious proud I were of them. Then we had a skillet an' a coffee-pot, an' two cups that had lost their saucers, and two saucers that, vicy wersy, had lost their cups, so they'd got mixed together, promiscus, one set red, an' the other blue.

The man he looked round, and then there was somethin' sad and fixed in his eyes that made me shiver, though in gen'l I ain't the shivery sort. I've seen a man pitched out of his cart, and the wheels run over him, an there wasn't half that dreadful feeling it give me to see that poor man's eyes. It was as if he said, I'm all dead but my body, my hope is dead, my faith is dead, and my heart is dead. I'm a sepulchre, and my eyes is the tombstones, an' my face is writ all over with epithets, or whatever you call what's said about dead men.

Says he, "Did you live here?" turning to me, an' there was somethin' grand in his manner, too, as if it was used to bein' there and couldn't help it.

In course I told him I did, but the premises was too large for me, now that my family was rejuiced.

"To how many?" ses he.

"To one," ses I, "an' that's myself. I'm all my own family now." "And if I understand right, you want to sell the things?"

"Well, yes," I said, hesitating, an' I 'spose men haven't felt much worse what give the last look to all their splendid furniture as they must part with, than I did, as I remembered how daddy had often set in one o' them cheers, makin' matches, an' me in the other, helpin' of him, an' thought of the chany teapot an' broken nose, an' the cardboard cover that I manufactured myself, when tother got broke, and the two cups with the other cup's saucers.

"I don't see as I can do any better," said the grand looking man with the holler cheeks, and the thin coat buttoned close up to his throat; an' he sighed as he spoke.

"Have you decided upon the price of these things as they stand?" he asked me again, with a look as put me in mind of a starving man a wantin' to buy a loaf, an' not money enough to do it with. I told him what my price was, an' then he asked me would I take so much a week, till it was paid? I told him I had expected to go out o' matches if I got the money down, and that I'd rather not wait, if he pleased.

It wasn't as he pleased, he said, but he'd been expectin' a little money as was sure to come, and didn't like to spend every shillin' he had for them. God help them, his little Nelly would starve. Well, we talked it over, and finally I said I'd see next day, and we'd come to terms somehow. I thought it would be more manly and independent-like to put it off for a little, even though I'd made it up in my mind that I'd got to let him have it.

The next day came, and he came with it. He brought his little girl this time; and my eyes! but I never see anything so like a picture. Such pretty, bright hair, and such cheeks! an' so little, she looked like a wax doll that you manages with a string that's hid somewheres to open her eyes

"This isn't a nice place, papa," said the little lady, her lips all of a quiver.

"It's the best papa can get," said the man, and he turned to the window with this face se hard like, though his thin lips trembled, too. It wasn't a fine prospect opposite, that you may believe. Me and father never troubled ourselves about that, 'cause we were born into it, as you might say. The room over there was a ragged room. It always had been a ragged room, and never respectable in our time. The window was full of rags; there was a bundle of rags inside, that got tipsy sometimes, and turned the other rags out of the window -- and then there was sights to be seen, till paper, mostly bits of old playbills, was pasted over, and when that was torn off rags generally came round again. Paper is considered the most respectable, when well put ip, but rags is the lowest stages -- next to nothing at all.

"She's been used to see a bit of green," he said, in that sad voice of his. "Poor child! poor little child!"

"Don't cry, papa, and I'll be very good," said the little lady, whispering; "I don't mind, you know." He didn't look like crying then, but I knowed by that that he had been at it sometime, and she had caught him.

"Well, my boy, do you agree to my terms?" he asked at last, sitting down in one of the old chairs, and drawing little Nellie between his knees.

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"O, yes," I said.

"You're not afraid of my running off with your furniture, then," he said smiling in a way that made me go sick -- it was so like a dead man's smile.

"And when papa grows rich," said little Nelly, seriously, without once taking her great eyes from my face, "he'll play you more than it's all worth, won't you, papa?"

"When I grow rich, my darling." His head fell on his hand, and he gave such a long, trembling sigh, that I half started up.

"You are to grow rich, you know, papa, very rich; for he made such a nice thing for -- for Government" -- it seemed such a large word for her to say -- "and they keep promising, you know, but poor papa has to pay so much that he's got tired of going for it, haven't you, papa?"

"I'm tired of my life," he said, in a low voice -- so low I could but just catch it; "it's been years of longing, hoping, waiting. It killed your mother, it will kill me; and all the time men are growing rich on the fruits of my labor. O, it's a wearisome world!"

"Don't cry, papa," she whispered, again, all of a tremble, "please don't cry!"

"No, dear, I won't cry; I've done with tears," he said, getting' up, an, then stoopin' down and kissin' her. "It's damp here;" he was shiverin' now, as I never see any one shiver before. "Where do you keep your coals, my boy?"

I showed him, and there being a few there, I broke an old box and scraped them all up, and soon there was enough fire to keep the chill off. Then I offered to buy his coals if he didn't want to go out, which he accepted, thankful, and somehow it made me happy to help him.

Reg'lar as the day come, he had his little money to pay me, an' he always seemed glad to see me, and always had papers about, looking of 'em over; and Nelly -- oh! how beautiful she made that old room look! They had rigged up short curtains to the winders, so that the rags opposite wasn't visible only when very drunk and drawin' attention by their noise, an' I was as happy as a king, settin' there after a hard day's work. I offered to learn Nelly my trade, and though her father objected serious, at first, he came down to it, particularly after a long fit of coughing, one night, enough to rack a man's body to bits. So I learned her, and she did it so pretty with them little white fingers, it were a pleasure to see her.

Business came slack along my beat one time, and bein' independent, I wouldn't stay in the old place, but goes to another part of the city try my luck. Sometimes it was oranges, and sometimes papers, and then again matches; but I allays did somethin', and seemed to be doing it for Nelly all the time, as I put the ha'pence in my pocket.

It wouldn't be believed what kept life in my body in them days, for I had growed stingy, and no meat-pies, only a mouthful of bread.

One day I got down in my old place, an' I come across Susan M'Cumsty, as keeps a decent stall in the corner of a certain street, and is a honest, respectable, fair dealing person, as obliged me more than once in the orange way, which I've allays paid her up honorable. She, living in Wynch Mews, had always knowed mother and me, so says she,

"There's sickness going on in the old house."

My heart was in my throat, so to say. "It's the little girl," I said, "I knowed she'd git her death there."

"No it ain't, it's the old man," said Mrs. M'Cumsty, "the old gent, as we calls him, for a rejuiced gen'leman he is, as sure as I sells apples. He's sick into his bed, and never goin' to git off of it agin, I thinks," said she. With that I put up my stock, for it was coming night, and cut away to the old place all in a tremble, fearing of the worst. I'd put a orange and an apple in my pockets for Nelly, and trusted to Providence to hide the holes in my shoes, which, being on the tramp allays, won't last forever; and when I got there I was that out o' breath that I had to sit on to the door-step and wait till my tremble was gone. When I got upstairs, an' knocked, little Nelly came to the door.

"He's here, papa, he's here!" she cried, dancin' back and forth, and almost in the same breath, "Papa's better tonight, he's quite himself, ain't you, papa?"

"Yes, dear, I am better," he said. Good evening, my boy, I was wishing you would come."

"You haven't felt so well for months, have you, papa?" Nelly cried.

"No, dear, I really think I haven't felt so well for months."

"You see there's a letter come today with a promise in it, and it's made papa so well and happy!"

He did look well, one sort of way, that is, he was bolstered up, and his eyes were so bright that they blazed, and his cheeks were a lovely red.

"I'm going to make him some toast said Nelly, and bustled round that important that it did one's eyes good to see her. "Papa likes toast so well, and if you'd like, I'll make you some."

I told her no, I didn't care, that I wasn't a bit hungry, which I hope to be forgive for, an' I took out the orange, an' she run and give it to her father, and sparkled like a diamond she was so pleased. Then I sat down by him and left her to her work.

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"I've been ill," he said, "quite ill with fever, though I tried to keep it from Nelly. I'm so uncommonly well tonight," he went on, "that I begin to hope I may really get up soon. At one time I thought I was dying. What would my poor little child do alone in the world?"

"I make bold to say, sir, if you'd excuse me, that I'd never see her suffer," says I, "no more nor if she was my own sister."

"My poor boy," he said, with a grieved kind of look, "what could you do?"

"I'm my own fambly," says I, quite firm, "and I can work for two."

"God bless you," said he, with such a smile.

"However," and there he heaved, a great sigh, "I'm better, thank Heaven! and I've had a bit of encouragment to-day; at last, perhaps, I shall get my rights." Just then up comes Nelly with the toast, which she had placed beautiful on one of the wrong saucers and a bit of tea in one of the wrong cups, and he looked at her with such loving eyes; and she put up her pretty lips and kissed him so sweet!

So he put the things on a chair by the bedside, and Nelly and me set down to the fire. She had a little box of dominos -- common things they was -- and she asked her papa if she should play, and he said, "Yes, my dear," with such a smile. So we played, she looking bright and laughing, an' turning round every few moments to see him a lookin' and smiling, straight at us, till by-and-by she said,

"Papa's fast asleep; isn't it nice?"

I looked round too. Yes, the dear old gentleman had fallen asleep, and the fire-light played over his face, which seemed so peaceful and happy that I hadn't a doubt that moment but every thing in the world was going on delightful, in particular me and Nelly, who did have a wonderful hand at doubles, to be sure.

"Isn't it still here?" asked Nelly, presently, when we'd got tired, and sat looking at the fire. "Do you like to have it so still?"

"Sometimes," I said. "How the shadows do dance, don't they?" The shadows did dance, for the candle was almost out.

Says I, "I must be going."

"But you'll come again to-morrow," she says. "Papa'll be up then, he said he should; -- and -- and -- oh! isn't it still here?"

We both of us looked round slow like to the bed. The old gentleman slept on, but his head seemed to have fell curious. And then we both looked at each other, and little Nelly began to grow pale, and seemed all eyes.

"He's asleep, isn't he?" she asked, and her voice trembled.

"Of course," I said.

You -- you'd better say good-night; he won't mind -- he never does mind being spoke to in his sleep," she said, and her voice trembled more than ever.

I went up, but it was like logs being dragged along of my feet, they were that heavy; and Nelly, she never stirred, poor child. I went up and I stooped down, and -- and I looked round to Nelly. She saw something in my face, threw up her arms, and screamed "papa!" in such a voice which never may I hear again; and there she was on the bed, her arms round his poor neck, and he never knowing of it.

Well, that were a dreadful night, which I never likes to talk of. Poor gentleman! he must a died happy. And as for Nelly -- why I take care of her. We has that same room, and Mrs. McCumsty gives her a lodging for what little she can do for her; but I take care of her. She never goes in rags, Nelly don't, but neat and tidy, and keeps out of the streets, and I'm making money, I am. Nelly may be heard of sometimes, by some of her relations, for she's bound to be a lady; how it'll come about, I don't know, but it will come. "Matches! Buy any matches?"

"Hey-day! What's this, tears?" cried Uncle Ralph, looking up, and seeing sundry suspicious movements. "Come, come, let's forget the poor old man, and hope that little Nelly, became a lady, that is, a good, true woman. Hear the kettle sing! I move that somebody sets the table."

Presently all the little girls were busy with the bread and butter, the cake and cream, and Tilly was rolled up to the table, to officiate, or rather to pour the first cups out, in honor to her guests. I leave you to conjecture what a merry time they had, and how much all enjoyed it. For the picnic, look out for the next volume of Anne's Saturday Afternoons.

THE END.