wept until I ran away to escape the agony."

"Were you not afraid in the crowded streets?" inquired the uncle, as
Jennie paused.

"Oh, yes! very often, dear uncle--that is, of the ugly wheels; but there
seemed a guardian presence around me and few ever spoke rudely to me;
and I was never injured, excepting on that blessed night when God's time
had come to help us through my physical hurt. Don't let us think any
more about it," continued she, looking up at her uncle, and perceiving
how deeply he was moved; "it was all right, and if it had not happened
we might have been wicked and thoughtless instead of feeling that our
heavenly Father's will is always better than our own."

Mr. Halberg arose and walked around on the other side of the church, and
on his return to his niece he said, in a calm yet earnest tone, "My
child, you must pray for your uncle--his life will be weary indeed
without you!" and pressing her fondly to him as they stood by the old
man's grave, he too murmured "Dear little Jennie!" and they left the
spot to the breath of the winds and the twittering of the birds that
hopped about upon the willow branches.

CHAPTER XXVII.

Meantime Ellen lay upon her couch, tossed with many conflicting
emotions. Her better nature reproached her for her injustice and cruelty
toward her innocent cousin, and almost persuaded her to cease her
persecutions, and even to strive to imitate her winning virtues; but the
remembrance of the scene in the summer-house, and of Henry's
contemptuous look as he left her, without even a parting salutation,
awakened the bitter thought that she had fallen in his estimation,
perhaps beyond the power of retrieval, and she resolved to keep up the
semblance of a pride and indifference which she was far from feeling.
For her cousin's opinion she little cared, nor was she influenced by the
thought of an invisible yet heart-searching eye. No wonder, then, that
she clung to her perverseness, and moved about on her restless pillow
with no sweet or refreshing sleep to quiet the throbbings of her heavy
brow.

The noonday sun was streaming through her window making the autumnal air
seem warm and cheery, when a gentle rap was heard at her door, and her
cousin entered. Her countenance was serene and peaceful, and her voice
soothing and mild, as she said, "I have come to bathe your head, dear
Nellie, Carrie told me you were ill, and I could not feel easy nor happy
until I came to you."

"I am better alone," said Ellen, with a repelling motion of the hand.
"If I need any thing, I will ring for Meggie; she is quite accustomed to
my headaches."

"But, Nellie," said her cousin, in a beseeching tone, "something in your
manner tells me that you do not love me, and yet I am not conscious that
I have offended you. I can not go from----, without being at peace with
everybody. The sermon was so full of mercy and kindness this morning!"

"I do not feel like hearing a sermon to-day," said Ellen, "and you will
oblige me, Jennie, if you will leave me to myself, it is decidedly the
best way to relieve me."

Jennie said no more; but arranging her cousin's shawl closer about her,
and darkening the room, she placed the cooling liquid which she had
prepared near the bed, and softly left the room. There was a slight
shadow upon her brow as she entered her uncle's study, but it was
banished by his welcome kiss. Her aunt and two cousins sat in a
bay-window facing the south. Here they had always assembled on Sundays,
until there came to be a sort of consecrated air about that quiet room,
and something hallowed in the lovely view seen from the window.

"Here is your nook, Jennie, we have been expecting you for some time!"
said Carrie, "there'll be such a sad vacancy next Sunday! I don't
believe I shall love this room any more after you are gone, dear
cousin!"

"I am glad if my presence makes it happier to you, Carrie," replied
Jennie; "but you forget that uncle, and aunt, and Mary, and Ellen will
be left to you besides the pleasant associations that cluster about all
these familiar objects, while I shall be deprived of every thing but
dear mamma."

"But every body will love you, Jennie," said Mary, "and you have the
power to draw around you whoever you wish, so that your life will be
sure to be sunny wherever you go."

"Not every body, Mary," said Jennie, looking thoughtfully upon the
glorious view that was spread out before them, "if so, my heart would
feel no weight upon it to-day. It is not well," she continued, "to have
too much sunshine; else the storms would never be permitted to come; I
don't believe we should truly appreciate and love this bright landscape
if the shadows were not often flitting over it, thus making the glory
more apparent!"

"You are right my child," said Mr. Halberg, "the trying dispensations of
our life are wisely ordered, and who of us would dare to wish it
otherwise!"

"And yet it seems," said Mary, "as if sorrow never came to some people,
they glide through the world so unruffled and cheerful!"

"How little can we judge!" replied her father. "Every heart knoweth its
own bitterness, and the outer surface is not always the index to the
inner emotions or passions."

"Do you think, dear uncle," said Jennie, "that one can ever learn so to
bear the ills of his lot, as always to present a cheerful and happy
exterior to the world?"

"Not always, my child," said her uncle, "there is often a weakness of
the flesh, when the spirit without its depressing influence, would be
strong to endure; yet we may cultivate such a feeling of confidence in
the will of God as never to murmur at His decrees, and even to welcome
His chastisements, as blessings in disguise."

"That seems so difficult," said Carrie, "I am afraid I could never learn
to welcome a sorrow."

"Not simply as a sorrow, my dear child," returned Mr. Halberg; "but as a
means to a future good which could not be attained without it; there is
a great deal that is hard for our sinful natures to comprehend; but
there are spiritual aids of which we may all avail ourselves. Do not let
us slight them, my dear children," continued he, rising from his seat,
and gathering the three in one embrace as they stood by the window. The
golden light was sprinkled upon the landscape, and the whole face of
nature seemed to glow with an unusual radiance, as that little band of
loving hearts beat in such grateful and perfect unison. Yet was there a
sigh in the midst of it all, for the absent and sinning one:

    Worlds like to this
    Mingle sorrow and bliss.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

Mrs. Dunmore and Jennie were busy in talking over the past, and forming
plans for the future, when Mr. Colbert was announced.

"I trust you will excuse my early call," said he, as they arose to greet
him. "I have to leave the village at noon, which is my only apology for
intruding upon your morning hours."

"We are always at home to our old and valued friends," replied Mrs.
Dunmore. "I hope our long separation will not make us strangers to each
other."

"Miss Jennie reminds me that a long interval has come between us," said
the clergyman, glancing at the graceful and womanly figure before him;
"I have been accustomed to think of her as the child of my pleasant
rambles, so that I am scarcely prepared to meet her in another form."

Jennie had received him with that timid cordiality so common to early
womanhood, a kind of shrinking from the advances of a new and not wholly
defined stage of being, and, as he alluded to the days of her childhood
and the hours spent together in his hill-girt home, a slight blush
tinged her face, and she said, "the long interval has changed you too,
Mr. Colbert, so that there needed early memories to aid me in
recognizing you."

"Time has dealt very differently with us," replied her friend, as the
mirror opposite enabled him to contrast his sunken and pallid features
with the round and healthful face of the lovely girl. "There are many
things, however, that encourage me in the hope that we are none the less
friends than formerly, and that we still have the one great sympathy in
common;" added he, recalling her devout manner in church the day before.

"Are you not well, Mr. Colbert," asked Mrs. Dunmore; "or do you trespass
upon the hours necessary to your repose and recreation that you are so
much thinner and paler than you used to be? I fear I must usurp your
prerogative and turn preacher if you are really destroying your health
by too great devotion to your duties."

"I have been quite a sufferer for the last few years, my dear madam,"
returned the minister; "but not from the cause you assign."

"Perhaps you need change," said the widow; "it is not well to confine
one's self too constantly to one locality."

"I feel confident it is so," said Mr. Colbert, "since even so short a
journey revives me materially; but how comes it," he asked, "that you
are here, and apparently settled?"

"Jennie must explain that to you," replied Mrs. Dunmore, "as it was
through her that our present arrangements were made."

"Ah! do you find a rural life so much more congenial than your city home
that you have adopted it altogether?" said Mr. Colbert, addressing
Jennie.

"It is not that," she replied, "the city was the scene of my happiest,
as well as my saddest days, and we are soon to return to it; but this
village is the home of my nearest relatives, who were restored to me a
few years since through a singular Providence, and my grandfather's
infirmities rendered it expedient that we should remain here until now."

Mrs. Dunmore seeing the tears that dropped upon her child's work at
mention of her grandfather, took Mr. Colbert aside, and gave him a brief
history of all that had occurred during the years of their severance,
and when she had finished her relation of the old man's derangement, and
of Jennie's devotion and love toward him, the minister arose, and walked
backward and forward in the room with an absorbed and meditative air,
and then stopping so suddenly before the young girl as to startle her,
he said abruptly: "Will you give me one moment in the garden? I have a
single word to say to you alone." Jennie laid aside her work, and as
they stepped from the colonnade into the garden of their lodgings, she
opened an adjoining wicket that led to her uncle's grounds, and,
motioning Mr. Colbert to follow, she passed through and entered the
little summer-house.

"Are we quite free from intrusion?" asked her companion, as she seated
herself upon a bench near the window.

"I believe I reign sole monarch of this sequestered nook at this
season," replied Jennie. "My cousins care little for such solitude now
that the breeze is chilly and the flowers have vanished."

"Jennie," said her friend, leaning against a pillow as if for support,
"if you knew that all my suffering for the last few years had been for
you, that this change, and pallor, and thinness, were all occasioned by
the fear that the time might never come when I could tell you that I
love you, you would pardon such a hasty declaration of my feelings
toward you. You were but a child when first we met," he continued,
placing his hand upon her head as he had then been wont to do, "but how
closely your young being had woven itself with mine my subsequent weary
life will prove. Were you ever sundered from the object you had learned
to prize most on earth, Jennie?" said he, as the drooping lashes were
lifted, and the pensive, earnest eyes met his inquiring gaze, "and was
there utter desolation? Then do you appreciate fully all that I would
say to you of my own sorrow when bereft of the only mortal whom my heart
had ever cared to cherish. I ask you not to bind yourself to me in an
irrevocable vow, but to think of me as your truest friend until you have
seen more of the world and of men. If then you can turn away from all to
the heart that will never beat for another, and call me husband, God be
praised--my only earthly prayer will be answered."

Not another word was spoken, but silently as they came so they went
back, through the little wicket into the presence of Mrs. Dunmore, and
Mr. Colbert made his adieus and departed--but alas for Henry Moore!

CHAPTER XXIX.

The afternoon was charming--one of those mellow, hazy atmospheres that
make the autumnal season so pensive and dreamy, and Jennie felt its
influence as she and Henry Moore sought the bright path to Blinkdale.
Not richer nor more sparkling could the emerald, and the topaz, and the
amethyst, and the sardius be, in their gay and beauteous variety, than
were the changing leaflets in the sun's burnishing rays. The birds were
singing merrily amid the brilliant foliage, and the fresh winds played
among the branches, tossing them to and fro, and blending the bright and
the somber in one glorious commingling. A streamlet crossed their
pathway, moving placidly and gently along, but as they followed its
windings, gurgling and foaming over the rocky obstructions, and almost
drowning their voices in its noisy course. "How beautiful" exclaimed
Jennie, seating herself upon a mossy stone on the river's bank, and
looking to her companion for sympathy in her enthusiastic delight.

"I would rather look on a sweet face," replied Henry, as his eloquent
eyes met hers. Blushing deeply, Jennie turned away and remained
thoughtful and still, listening to the din of the waters and the wail
of the autumn winds as they swept through the tree-tops, and her quiet
revery brought the old expression of early maturity and care, for her
thoughts had been roving all along her past life, and had left her amid
her childhood's sorrows in the narrow dreary room, with the weary and
forsaken ones, and none else to love and cheer her.

"Jennie," said her companion, noticing the bitterness that passed over
her young face, and wishing to dissipate any mournful musings, "do you
know why I asked you to come alone with me to Blinkdale to-day?"

Aroused thus suddenly, the young girl started from her lowly seat, and
patting its mossy side with her foot, replied, "How should I, Henry,
unless it be that it is always pleasanter to have one companion who can
understand and appreciate your love of nature, than to be surrounded in
your walks by many who care only for merriment and chatting. I could
spend the whole day in these solemn old woods with nothing to amuse me
but my own thoughts."

"And yet, I doubt if your pensive musings would be profitable to you,"
said her companion; "there is something dirge-like in the music of
nature that begets a morbid sort of feeling in a mind like yours,
Jennie, and too much of such solitude would injure you. Pardon me,"
continued he, as he caught her half comic inquisitive gaze; "but your
character has been my study for a long, long time."

"Not more profitable to you than my solitary reveries, I fancy," said
Jennie.

"But more delightful to me than any study," replied Henry, and seating
her again upon the bank near him, he told her all--how he had watched
her growing graces both of heart and mind, since the first time they had
met beneath her grandfather's porch; how he had striven in his
profession for her sake; how he had suffered his whole soul to go out
toward her in a hallowed and sincere affection; and how cold, and dead,
and sad his life must be if she reciprocated not his tenderness; and
then, with a flushed and anxious face, he awaited her answer.

Oh! how weary was the walk home! The woods were dark and dreary, and the
steps of the young man heavy and listless, as he sauntered on beside his
silent and suffering companion. Life had gained a new and somber aspect
to her too, since she was the cause of a crushing sorrow to one who had
lavished upon her his heart's breath. Why could he not be content with
the sisterly regard she had ever felt toward him? It is so terrible to
see him in his manly grief, and to feel that she may avert it! And yet,
how can it be otherwise, since there is ever before her a pale face,
with its spiritual eyes fixed on her soul calling forth all that she has
to bestow.

CHAPTER XXX.

Standing alone that evening in the bay-window of her uncle's study,
Jennie gazed out upon the peaceful moonlit scene, trying to derive from
it a tranquillity which the day's events had banished, when a loving arm
was wound about her, and a low voice said, "May I share your thoughts
this evening, my child?"

"It is you, is it, uncle!" said Jennie; "your step was so ghost-like
that I did not hear you enter."

"I came very softly that I might not disturb you," replied Mr. Halberg;
"you seem quite absorbed."

"And so I was, dear uncle, endeavoring to gather somewhat of serenity
from the quiet and beauty of nature."

"What disturbs you to-night, my darling?" said her uncle, looking fondly
upon the sweet face that was upturned to his, and wishing that his own
soul could look forth as calm and pure in its simple truthfulness as
that young and guileless one's. "There is naught but sin that should mar
our peace, and I trust you are constant in your efforts to be clean from
that."

"Is it not a source of sorrow, dear uncle, to occasion grief to others,
even though the infliction involves no sinful motive?" said Jennie,
with suffused eyes, and a tremor in her voice.

"Truly so," replied Mr. Halberg, instantly conjecturing the cause of his
niece's self-reproach; "but the ills that we are unable to avoid we
should not dwell upon. If a person seeks that which we know we can not
conscientiously bestow, it is a sacred duty to refuse it him, even
though we are sensible that it will give much pain, and when the duty is
performed in a Christian manner it will leave no lasting sting, but will
itself prove a healing balm to the wounded one."

"You comfort me much, dear uncle," said Jennie; "I have been so sadly
depressed this evening that the quiet and solitude even were
overpowering, and your presence is so soothing and cheering. It will be
a great loss to me to be deprived of so precious a guide--and a great
cross too!" she added as her uncle bent to kiss her brow.

"We are all called upon to bear our cross in this life, dear child,"
said Mr. Halberg. "This will be a heavy one to your old uncle, but it is
for your good, and he therefore cheerfully submits to it. I am not
afraid to confide you to One who will guide you unto a perfect rest and
peace. Come in, my children," said he, as a tap announced his three
daughters. "Where's mother? we must have our circle complete to-night
since Jennie will leave a vacant space on the morrow," he added with
some emotion.

"Here I am," replied Mrs. Halberg, hastening toward them from an
adjoining apartment; "it is really very delightful to have you all
gathered once more about me! Nellie has been a sad truant of late, and
Rosalie has quite monopolized the other girls."

"I did not flatter myself that I should be missed," said Ellen; "and as
for the girls, Mr. Moore's house seems quite as attractive as their own
home to them."

"His is indeed a complete and charming household! my daughter," said her
father; "such perfect unison and harmony reigns among its members. I
know of no fitter examples for my children, and am only too happy that
they are on such an intimate footing there."

"It would be more agreeable to some, perhaps, if the connection were
still nearer," answered Ellen, with an unmistakable glance at her
cousin, whose increasing color showed that she applied her meaning. This
then solved the mystery. Had she penetrated her cousin Ellen's feelings
before, how much hatred, and malice, and spite, might she not have
averted.

CHAPTER XXXI.

"May I come in, Nellie?" said Jennie, as her cousin answered her gentle
rap by half-opening the door and peeping out to see who the intruder was
at that late hour. "I have a great deal to say to you," continued she,
as Ellen gave her an ungracious permission to enter.

"Well you must hurry and say it, Jennie, for I am uncommonly sleepy, and
feel a stronger inclination for my bed at present than for any
communications," replied Ellen, throwing herself languidly down, and
motioning her cousin to be seated.

"Nellie," said Jennie, placing her small white hand upon the one that
hung over the arm of the sofa, "to-morrow we part, and God only knows
when and where we may meet again. Be that as it may, to-night we have
the opportunity to understand and love each other, another evening's
shadows may stand between our hearts if they are not earlier united. You
think that I love Henry Moore; will it make you happy to know that he
will never be aught to me but a kind and affectionate brother, and that
the most sacred place in my heart is reserved for another occupant?"

Quite ashamed and almost like a guilty thing, Ellen sat, while the color
rushed over neck and face, mounting even to the brow, and deepening as
it rose until it seemed too painful to endure, then rising from her
seat, and opening the window upon the balcony she stepped forth into the
night air, and kneeling by the balustrade, remained, motionless as a
statue until a soft kiss upon her forehead assured her that she was
forgiven. The stars looked down with a brighter twinkle, and the autumn
wail grew into a sweet harmony as the two reconciled cousins stood with
clasped hands gazing upward.

CHAPTER XXXII.

"Good-by, uncle; good-by auntie; good-by girls," said Jennie, as she was
pressed to the bosom of her relatives at the parting hour. "Simon, don't
forget the dear old seat," continued she, putting a coin in his hand,
and turning tearfully toward the carriage where Mrs. Dunmore was
awaiting her, and then springing back to give one more kiss to her
uncle, and to whisper something in Carrie's ear that sent the warm blood
quickly to her face.

Henry and Rosalie were there to bid her adieu, and golden-curled Minnie,
too, with a bunch of autumn leaves in her little hand, which she had
gathered on the way as a parting gift, and which she now held up
beseechingly to Jennie, who stooped to embrace her, and taking the
withered tokens, hastened to hide her emotion in the furthest recess of
the carriage that bore her away from the home of her kindred. It seemed
to those who watched the receding travelers, as if a blight had fallen
upon their pleasant things; as if the winter had suddenly come and
frozen up all the springs of pleasure and delight, for that young girl's
presence, though unobtrusive in its influence, had diffused warmth and
gladness all about her, and now that she was gone the warmth and
gladness had also departed, and a mournful group turned back into the
house with a mournful feeling, almost as if the grave had swallowed up
one of its inmates. Old Simon betook himself to the seat beneath the
trees, and with his knees crossed, and a dolorous motion of his gray
head, he muttered,

"I thought it couldn't be all in the name! the likeness was amazin'!
amazin'!" And forth from the stilly air seemed to come to the good old
butler's ear, "Dear little Jennie! dear little Jennie!"

CHAPTER XXXIII.

Six years have passed, and beneath the old maples sits Nurse Nannie,
wrinkled and bent, with a wee babe upon her lap, while a girl of two
years and a half plays with her doll upon the lawn, now and then looking
up to catch mamma's smile, or to wonder why dear papa looks so grave
when Grandmamma Dunmore tells him about the sick man in the cottage at
the end of the lane, and his motherless children. And now she spies
cousin Henry and Carrie coming from the avenue in the road, and springs
to meet little Harry, who takes her hand and marches off with her,
saying, he "isn't afwaid of tows," and brandishing a wisp of a stick as
if there were a mighty power in it. Sally brings more chairs out upon
the green, and the mammas and papas talk busily together, while the
little ones run about enjoying their own infantile prattle; and just as
Harry and Jennie are the happiest, with their pinafores full of
buttercups and daisies, and their little faces flushed with exercise and
joy, nurse comes to take them to the house, for the dew begins to fall.
Then Mamma Colbert proposes that all go to spend the evening with Fred
Burling and Rosalie, who occupy Grandmamma Dunmore's summer home.

Thus the days pass until the summer is gone, and the snow comes and
drives them all to the city.

Mamma spends only a month away, for papa can not leave his parish, and
she takes them to see Grandpa and Grandma Halberg, and Aunts Ellen and
Mary, who pets them very much; then they go to the great house in the
avenue, and every thing is so new and beautiful, that the time goes very
pleasantly; only sometimes as they drive through Broadway, and stop near
the crossings, a little ugly-looking creature, with a broom, gets upon
the steps of the carriage and asks for pennies, and when Jennie shakes
her tiny hand at her, and says "go 'way, bad girl," mamma speaks kindly
to her, and puts a great silver bit into the poor girl's hand, and when
she has gone, tells Jennie that she must pity and be good to the little
street-sweepers, for dear mamma was like that poor girl once. Then
Jennie puts up her wee mouth, and says, "No, no, mamma," while she makes
an ugly face at the vision of the child with the broom, and revolves in
her bewildered mind what dear mamma can mean!

NANNIE BATES,

THE HUCKSTER'S DAUGHTER.

NANNIE BATES.

CHAPTER I.

It was little comfort life had ever brought to her, what with harsh
treatment from a cruel father, and the woman's work that came upon her
young shoulders, while her mother traveled up and down the streets with
her basket of small-wares, trying to get the wherewithal to keep soul
and body together. The lazy husband droned away the hours in the
dram-shops, gulping down the hard earnings of his busy wife, or he
staggered home with his reeling brain, to vent his ill-nature on the
little pale thing that kept the house. It was "Nannie, do this," or,
"Nannie, do that," or, "Nannie, mind the baby," all the live-long time,
when he was sufficiently sober to know what was going on about him; and
if the tired little feet loitered at all at his bidding, a wicked oath
or a villainous blow hastened her weary steps. "What was she born for,
any way?" She looked down upon the face of the sleeping babe whose
cradle her foot was rocking, but it gave her no satisfactory answer. It
was not a bright rosy-cheeked thing such as she met every day just round
the corner, where she went to the pump for water! She must have been
just so white and sickly, for the bit of a looking-glass that she picked
up from an old ash-barrel in the street gives her back no round and
healthy cheeks, but the reflection of a meager, sad-looking face, that
nobody can care to look upon! And they must always be so, both baby and
she, for one of her teachers in the Industrial School told her that
nothing could be strong and healthy without the sun, and there was never
a single ray in that dreary basement.

Oh! no, they needn't be weak and sickly! A thought has occurred to
her--she wonders why she never had it before! Perhaps father wouldn't
like it if he should come home and find her away. But love for baby is
stronger than fear of father, and so she tidies herself up as well as
she can, and wrapping the little one in a piece of an old blanket, takes
it out where it is the brightest and sunniest, and there she sits on the
broad stone-steps of some great house, watching the merry children who
play upon the walk, and wondering if she can ever hope to see dear
little Winnie as joyous and happy.

"Look at that poor girl," said one of the gay children, stopping her
hoop and touching her brother upon the back with her stick; "she's got a
little baby in her arms just as big as sissy--hasn't she Willie? And
only see what an old ragged blanket it has on! Haven't you got any nice
clothes for the baby?" said she to the young girl, who had heard her,
and was moving off with the wee child hugged closely to her
breast--"because sissy has a great many, and I know mother can spare
you one," and with that she ran up the steps, and pulled the bell as
hard as she could.

"Oh! mamma," said she, all out of breath with haste and excitement,
"there's a little bit of a baby out there, just like my sissy, and it
hasn't any thing on its feet, and the old flannel rag can't cover it
half over; won't you let me give it that one you put in the mending
basket? It is so much bigger and nicer than that!" and the tiny arm was
thrown caressingly around the gentle mother's neck, and the little lips
were touching her cheek.

"Blessings on her swate heart!" said Biddy, rising, by her mistress'
permission, to get the blanket. "'Tis never the like of ye'll come to
want, so shure as my name's Biddy Halligan, an' ye so free in your
benivolence. But where's the baby, faith?" said she, as she went down
the steps holding the little girl by the hand.

"Oh! Biddy, what shall I do? she's gone, and now I can't give her the
blanket!" and the disappointed child wiped her eyes upon her pinafore,
and stood still upon the walk, while her nurse looked down the length of
the street.

"Maybe that same is she," said Biddy, "with the brown bonnet upon the
head, as is going round the corner by the the big grocery."

"Oh! yes, that's she," and little May brightened up, and walked as fast
as she could to overtake the poor girl. They reached her just as she
closed the door of the basement after her, and May hung back at first,
half frightened as she looked into the dismal place; but Biddy
encouraged her, so that she just ventured within the door, and handed
the small parcel; then she would go home, for a vague feeling of evil
haunted her timid mind in that dark and lone spot.

Nannie opened the bundle, and her eyes glistened as she saw the great
square of soft flannel with a pretty silken border worked all around it.
"They can't be bad people all of them that live in grand houses, as
father says," thought she, "or they wouldn't have sent me this pretty
thing!" She is so glad to get home before he comes, for now, perhaps,
she can escape a scolding, and, common as cross words are to her, she
shrinks from them. She will go out every day at this hour when it is
pleasant, and then she will not be missed at home. "'Tis so nice to have
that comfortable covering for Winnie, for now she can hide her scanty
apparel, and she will look quite respectable and neat;" for Nannie has
some idea of neatness, and really tries to better the condition of the
family. She learned a great many good ways at the school, and she does
not forget them, although she has not been since baby's birth, and they
will tell greatly upon the whole of her life. There was a time when she
did not care if the floor was all covered with heaps of dirt, and she
would go out into the street with the rags flying all about her, and her
hair in masses of thick tangles, and her face quite black and ugly. Now
she scrubs up the room very often, and you never see any of the
streamers hanging from her garments, for she mends them as well as she
can, and she makes free use of the nice water that is a blessing of such
magnitude to the poor. Her hair too is always glossy and smooth--no
matter if she does have to wear a coarse frock, and an old and faded
bonnet, they are whole, and that is far better than rags or dirt. She
isn't a bit ashamed of them nor of her bare feet, for they are so white
that the blue veins are plainly visible, and things are so much better
than they used to be.

"This is a very pleasant morning, what with the nice little girl, and
baby's new blanket!" and she went to fold it up and lay it in a safe
place for the next day, when a rough hand caught it from her.

"What have we here?" said her drunken father; "embroidered, eh! that's
good luck, indeed! I'll take it, child, it's just the thing, it will
bring a good price!"

"Oh! don't, please don't sell Winnie's blanket, father!" pleaded Nannie;
"it is all she has that's decent, and a good little girl brought it on
purpose for her, please don't take that, father!" But the man was gone,
and while the girl sat sobbing over her loss, he was greedily swallowing
its price as he had done that of many a nice article before.

CHAPTER II.

"Matches? shoe-lacings? buttons? only a penny a dozen, ma'am!" and the
foot-sore woman presses her face to the basement windows, and holds up
her wares with a strange pertinacity, even though the mistress of the
mansion shakes her head many times, saying, "not to-day;" and turns to
discuss some trifling subject as if there were not starvation and misery
in the tones that are dying upon her ear. Heart-sick and desponding, the
poor woman turns away, and renews her entreaties at the next neighbor's,
perchance to be spurned again and again; for the cosy tea-hour has
arrived, and husband and children are all gathered around the
well-spread board, and it is annoying to be disturbed by beggars, now.

The pleading voice, and scanty raiment, and woe-begone expression, jar
sadly upon the glad home-circle that is teeming with content, and
plenty, and cheerfulness, and it is easier to send such forlornities
off, and trouble yourself no more about them, than to break away from
your own beloved and blessed ones to inquire into their condition with a
view to comfort and relieve.

"For the love of heaven will ye buy something, sir," says the
half-frantic creature, addressing a benevolent-looking gentleman who had
cast a pitying glance upon her. The stars are hidden by dense black
clouds which every moment threaten to pour out their fury upon the
earth, and the quick tread of the people seeking the shelter of their
homes awakens the wretched woman to a last effort, and she touches the
arm of the stranger in her eagerness to secure his attention. "I have
sold nothing this day, sir, and the two children at home waiting for the
morsel that I have not to carry them--oh! buy something, sir, and the
blessing of the poor be with ye!"

"Where do you live, my good woman?" asked the gentleman, half inclined
to doubt her. He has so often been deceived by tales of sorrow and want
which had no foundation; yet there is something in the present case that
banishes his suspicions, and he follows her as she designates her abode.
She hesitates, as they near the spot, for fear her husband would be at
home in one of his abusive moods, for her woman's heart would fain cover
up even her bloated and loathsome husband with its loving and forgiving
mantle.

Was it best to tell him, or to persist in her obstinacy, and lose the
chance of supplying her children's need? A mother's affection prevails,
and with a sigh, she descends the steps, and opens the door of her
miserable dwelling. Her husband has not returned--that is well; but what
is the matter with Nannie? Leaning over her cradle and sobbing as if her
heart will break, the girl sits, while the darkness and want are only
made the more visible by a small bit of an offensive tallow candle that
is stuck in a potatoe for a candlestick.

"Is it the child that is sick, my girl, or what has come over ye that ye
moan and take on in that manner?" said the woman, advancing and holding
the candle close to the infant's face--then perceiving that nothing
ailed the babe, and supposing that the father might be the cause of the
girl's grief, she said no more about it; but bade Nannie hand the stool
to the gentleman who was standing with his back to the door while the
poor woman scrutinized the child.

"And is this your home?" asked he, glancing around the damp, unwholesome
apartment, and shivering even in the middle of the month of August.
"Have you no husband, and do you depend upon what you sell daily from
this basket for your living?"

If she told him that she had a husband, he would question her, and find
out his degradation; therefore she said she was a widow, turning around
to cross herself as she muttered softly, "the Lord forgive me the lie!"

"You must be but lately a widow," added he, looking at the tiny baby
before him.

"Faith, sir, ye must pardon me, an' I will tell ye all, since it's ye
would be taking the trouble to inquire of a poor body like me. Jim's
been enticed away by bad companions until it's every thing we had has
been pawned for spirits, and how could I tell ye 'twas my own husband
that was once so good and kind to me, and he not so much to blame as
the poor wretches that deal out to him the dreadful stuff!" and the
afflicted woman hid her face against the wall and wept for very shame
that the stranger should know her husband's folly. She was interrupted
in her grief by the object of it, who stumbled into the room, kicking at
the cradle-rockers as he came near tripping over them, and doubling up
his fists with a show of fight as his eye fell upon the stranger.

"Isn't it m'own house I'm in, Molly?" said he, "and what business have
you t' be taking in lodgers, and me the masther here!" and with that he
made a dive at the gentleman, who arose and stepped quietly aside.

"Oh! Jim," said the woman, "'tis a kind friend who is afther helping us,
when I could sell nothing the day."

"Who talks of help? A'nt I able t' s'port m'own fam'ly, I'd like t'
know?" muttered the drunken wretch, as he fell a loathsome heap upon the
straw in the corner of the room.

The stranger gave a compassionate glance at the wife, who seemed ready
to sink from mortification and sorrow, and putting some money into her
hand for their present necessities, called Nannie to him, and looked
steadily into her face one minute, and left without a word. The girl was
in his mind, though, as he took the way to his solitary lodgings--for
Mr. Bond was a bachelor.

She was not pretty, nor very prepossessing; but her expression showed
depth and character, and she was worthy a better training. At any rate
she must not be left to the tender mercies of that brutal man. He will
help her to make her way in the world, not by a mistaken charity, but by
teaching her self-reliance. She must be looked after. If Betty Lathrop
had not been taken from him so early in life, there might have been a
"Nannie Bond" to care for and teach, and perhaps Providence meant this
for his charitable and acceptable labor. And Mr. Bond rubbed his great
hands together, and sprang up the stairs to his chamber with a boyish
step and a light heart. He had found something to do.

CHAPTER III.

There was a neat carpet upon the floor, and two comfortable
rocking-chairs in the room, one at each window, with nice plump cushions
in them, and by a center-table, that had upon it a large family Bible, a
copy of "The Pilgrim's Progress," an almanac, and the "Daily Times," was
Mr. Bond's easy-chair. Nobody ever occupied that chair but himself, and
sometimes a sleek, gray cat, that once belonged to Betty Lathrop, and
would have had a joint ownership had Providence spared the mistress. Now
it was his especial care, and he would sit motionless by the window for
hours, rather than disappoint the favored puss of one tittle of her nap.
There was a picture of a young woman over the mantle, which Mr. Bond
thought a master piece of art, and which was the constant theme of his
contemplation. It had a round, ruddy face, and upon the head was a sort
of coiffure which our modern critics might eschew; but which Mr. Bond
believed the very perfection of elegance. It was composed of loops of
muslin disposed on each side over a profusion of brown curls which
distended the head to an enormous width, and upon the top was visible a
high back-comb which quite "capped the climax." The dress of the lady
was black silk, sleeves "_à la mouton_," and a collar of muslin with a
deep frill that reached nearly to the elbows. This was fastened with a
yellow glass pin, the gift of Mr. Bond on his promised possession of the
fair maiden who was to adorn herself with it. Before this portrait was
many a moment spent in vain regrets that it was only the image of that
which, but for an inscrutable wisdom, might have been his. A couple of
glass lamps, and a thermometer formed the mantle ornaments, and a mailed
figure of some Roman general in bronze, and a "Samuel" done in plaster,
completed the luxuries of the apartment.

It was a cosey place to the Bachelor though! the sun had free access
through the curtainless windows, and a merry time of it, it had playing
upon the benevolent features of the good man, until many a little
freckle stood out, as witness to its audacity. There was not a leaf in
his neighbor's garden just below his windows, that was unfamiliar to
him, and the three little girls that came out there to play beneath the
trees, were always glad to see the kind face above them, for many a
paper of sugar-plums fell from a capacious pocket that emptied itself
upon the grass, and many a pleasant word floated downward, to make them
happy. Oh! his was a nature to make a Paradise of any spot! so full of
love toward every living thing! What if his landlady was fidgety and
exacting, and called after him every time he entered the house, to wipe
his feet, and when she went to make his bed, would go around shoveling
up the dirt from the carpet muttering all the time about "some people's
slovenliness?" What if his fellow-lodgers always managed to get his seat
at table, and to eat up all the toast and muffins, before he was once
helped, leaving him only the dry bread with which to satisfy a morning's
appetite? What if the neighbors did torment him by continually stoning
his poor cat every time she took a walk in the garden to breathe the
fresh air, so that he was obliged to turn sentinel over the animal's
pedestrian excursions? It wasn't any thing to grumble about, and so the
peaceful man kept a sunny expression and a blessed and good heart, and
his oppressors only heaped upon themselves disagreeable traits without
moving him to a single murmur.

Mr. Bond did not seem to think it incumbent upon any body else to be
kind, or attentive, or good. He had his own way of living and doing, and
it mattered little to him if all the world went in an opposite
direction, he kept straight on in his bright and pleasant path, and it
brought him abundant joy and blessedness.

His cosey room was unusually beautiful and attractive as he returned
from his visit to the lowly basement, and it was with a feeling of
peculiar satisfaction that he seated himself by a window, with his feet
on the sill and his arms crossed upon his breast, while he watched the
vivid lightning as it glided swiftly about amid the blackened heavens.
Oh! how the rain descended, as if to drown the very earth in its
pouring fury. No wonder the good man heaved a sigh for the inmates of
that dreary room, and fancied himself back in the dismal place, with the
cataract of waters rushing down, until baby, and cradle, and stool were
all afloat as upon the great deep. He could not bear it any longer, and
so he took one of the lamps from the mantle, and struck a light, and
lost himself in his newspapers.

CHAPTER IV.

"It won't do, it won't do, Nannie," said the poor woman, wildly, as the
accumulated drops streamed like a rivulet down the steps of their
cellar; "we must manage to arouse your father, or the morning'll never
see him alive!" and she pushed and shook the inanimate clog that lay in
the corner, while the torrent still flowed on, until fear for the
child's safety made her quit her efforts with its father, and snatching
the infant from the cradle, and bidding Nannie follow her, she rushed
hastily out to seek help in order to remove her miserable husband. Not a
creature was stirring, for the bitterness of the storm had driven every
breathing thing under shelter. Still undaunted, she moves on, folding
her thin and drenched garments around the babe, until a watchman stops
her with a rude demand as to what calls her forth in the pitiless night?
She heeds not his roughness, but pulls him by the coat, while he vainly
endeavors to shake her off, and entreats him to aid her helpless
husband.

"Where is he, woman? and what do you want?" asks the besieged man, as
she continues to drag him along with a maniac's strength.

It is a long time that has elapsed since she left her threatened home,
and the waves have found their victim. They are not affrighted at the
hideous spectacle of a brutish and disfigured one, but they leap
caressingly about him, gliding over his pillow and hushing him into a
deep and lasting sleep. The empty cradle, and the stool, and the rough
board table with the flickering light upon it, float above the flowing
tide as the watchman enters the dismal cellar with the agonized woman
and her children. She springs to the corner, and while he feels for the
heavy mass with his club, she raises it with her tender hands, and
supports the drooping head upon her loving breast, while a cry of
anguish goes out from the heart that could never spurn him, even in his
lowest moments.

It is not of any use to chafe the cold temple, nor to try to bring back
the departed life! You'll be better without him, poor soul, though it is
dreadful to feel that he has gone hence in his sins! No wonder Nannie
shrinks away as the watchman, with the aid of one of his fellows whom a
spring of his rattle brings to the spot, bears their father out on their
way to the dead-house. He had never been kind to her since she can
remember, and his coming has occasioned only a terrible fear and dread
from day to day, yet she sobs out of sympathy for her mother, whose
grief is fearful to witness.

They follow the corpse, and all night long the poor woman keeps her
widowed vigils around the place where they have deposited her husband.
She thinks not of the child upon her bosom, nor does she heed nor
resist Nannie as she takes it gently away and runs back to the region of
the overflowed cellar. The morning has dawned in serenity and
loveliness, but there are signs of a late devastation all about. Broken
limbs of trees are strewn hither and thither, while now and then one
wholly uprooted lies prostrate across the street. Busy men are working
hurriedly to extricate a poor family whose house a land-slide has quite
buried. The mother and father have escaped the catastrophe, but their
boy and girl are crushed in the fallen ruins. Deep gullies in the hill
above her home show Nannie how fearful was the storm, and a mass of
stones and rubbish that fill the sluice, that should have turned the
water from their door, tell her the reason of their dreadful inundation.
She is trying to think whether it _is_ dreadful to her or not, when a
kind voice accosts her. "What's the matter here?" says Mr. Bond; "and
what are you and the baby out for in this soaking condition? Isn't your
mother in the house, and haven't you a dry rag to put upon that poor
child? 't will get its death, and you, too; come in here, quick, and
let's see what can be done."

"If you please sir, father's drowned in the rain last night, and my
mother's up by the dead-house, and me and baby haven't any home any more
to go to, nor any dry clothes to wear," said Nannie, wringing the little
frock that clung to the shivering infant, and following her friend
half-way down the steps to the cellar.

"Just as I feared!" said he, looking into the room and quickly
retreating; "the poor wretch has met a sudden and awful doom, the Lord
preserve us all!" and, telling Nannie to keep up with him, he led the
way to a higher and more healthy quarter of the street, and stopped at a
tidy-looking house, where a neatly clad woman answered his rap. "You
have lodgings to let?" asked he, glancing with an evident pleasure upon
the white floor of the entry that showed no spot nor stain.

"Why, yes, sir," returned she with an uneasy look at the forlorn child
and baby on the step; "there's a room and bedroom in the attic to let to
respectable people as has no followers, nor drinkings, nor carousings,
nor such like about 'em."

"Let me see them, my good woman," said Mr. Bond; "I'll make all right if
they suit," and he went puffing up the three flights of stairs, while
Nannie pattered after him with the infant, drabling her wet garments
over the clean floors, to the no small annoyance of the landlady.
"These'll do, these'll do," said Mr. Bond, with a gleesome tone, as he
looked from the windows upon the blue waters, where the boats were
gliding busily back and forth, and whence the pure fresh breeze came up
even into the rooms, giving them a healthful air. "This is to be your
home now, Nannie, and you may be sure I'll help you to be somebody if
you'll help yourself;" and, turning to the woman, he told her the reason
of the child's pitiable condition, and payed her in advance a quarter's
rent, giving her also some money with which to procure a dry suit for
the children; and then he departed to send the few articles of furniture
from their former abode, to which he added a bedstead and bedding, a
nice cooking-stove, a couple of chairs, and a few other conveniences.

Nannie was almost beside herself for joy as she surveyed the snug and
cheerful apartment, and the new goods as they stood in their respective
places. The chairs were by the windows, and the stool occupied a
prominent position before the new stove; the old table was covered with
an oil-cloth, and a brass candlestick and snuffers were upon it. There
was a pound of crackers, and a loaf of bread; and a pint of milk, and a
new tin cup and pewter spoon for Winnie, and Nannie hastened to give the
starving child some of the fresh milk, while she sat beside the pleasant
window wondering if Mr. Bond was one of the angels that her teacher used
to tell her about--and then she laid the baby upon the soft bed in its
cradle, and put a new blanket over it, and peeping into the bedroom
again to see if she hadn't been dreaming there was a real bedstead
there, all nicely furnished and dressed, she went off to seek her
mother, locking the door carefully after her as her kind friend had
directed.

CHAPTER V.

It was hard to hurry him off so and to cover him up from the face of his
own wife, even if he was a loathsome drunkard! But they couldn't keep
him there long, for new victims were constantly arriving, and he must
give place to them, and so they hustled him off in a deal box, without
pall, or procession, or priest, and they did not mind the woman and
child that followed on and stood side by side at the place of his
burial; but they covered him over with the damp earth, and never a
prayer above his head; and so they went away again, perchance to repeat
the office for another miserable one.

"Mother," says Nannie, as the hardened band moved away leaving the one
mourning heart by itself, "mother, come home now, 'tis no use staying
here, and baby'll be crying for ye, ye know."

Baby!--oh! what a link to earth was that!

"Where is the child?" said the mother, with a frantic start, as if just
awakened from a frightful dream. "Isn't she dead, Nannie? Didn't they
just bury her with your father?" and she cast herself upon the moist
turf, and tore her disheveled hair until the very wildness of her
sorrow calmed her. Then she suffered Nannie to lead her away. It was a
long distance; but they reached it at last, and the mother rushed
quickly up the stairs, not seeming conscious of the change, as she heard
the child's cries; for the poor little thing, unused to such long
neglect, made all ring again with its screams.

"Did you say this was home, Nannie, or is it heaven, child?" said the
woman, as her babe was hushed, and she became somewhat awake to her new
position.

The sun was streaming upon the floor, and wall, and the snowy curtains
were fluttering in the pure breeze, and the blue waves were dancing and
sparkling in the bay, and white sails were moving rapidly about, and
from the windows two beautiful islands were visible with their summer
verdure, and the bewildered mother pressed her hand to her forehead, as
if trying to unravel the mystery, when Mr. Bond's fat and merry face
peered in at the door.

"All right," said he, with a glad smile, "how are you getting along
here, eh? Rather better than the old cellar, isn't it, Nannie?" and
helping himself to a chair, he took the baby from its mother, pinching
its cheeks and chirruping to make it laugh, until even Mrs. Bates was
forced into a more cheerful mood. But the tears would not stay long
away, and as the memory of her loss came from her from time to time, she
burst forth in a bewailing strain to her kind benefactor,

"Ye's too good to me, sir, and it's thankful to ye I am for it all; but
it's my own husband that's taken suddenly from me, and ye'll not be
minding the grief."

"I know all about it, my good woman," said he, the muscles about his
mouth quivering with emotion. He was thinking of a green grave afar off,
with a maiden name upon it, and a true heart moldering beneath. "But
don't tell me any more, think of the living that have got to be cared
for, and you'll have no time to lament the dead," and he chucked the
baby under the chin, and dandled it upon his fat knees, as if he had
been used to it all his life.

"It's the Lord will reward ye, sir, for looking after the fatherless and
widowed," said the woman, as she cast a thankful glance about the
cheerful room, and then upon the benevolent face before her. "There'll
be three witnesses for ye if ever we get to the blessed land, and sure
ye'll not need them either, I'm thinking!"

"Never mind, never mind," said the kind man; "I like to help them that
are trying to get up in the world, and you'll know where to find a
friend whenever you are in trouble--I'll look in upon you once in a
while to see how the children get on," and he handed her a card with the
number of his lodging upon it, saying as he went out the door,

"Don't forget to send for Peter Bond, when you need any thing."

"Blessings on his big soul!" says the poor woman, as his retreating
footsteps die upon the stairs. "It is like taking away the light, to
lose sight of his merry countenance!"

CHAPTER VI.

"Wake up, child," said the mother, giving Nannie a gentle shake; "the
sun's high in the heavens, and it's lazing we are in our blessed bed."

No wonder they pull the nice spread over them, and sink down again upon
the soft pillows, feeling that there could be no greater luxury on
earth. "But it must not make them idle," Mrs. Bates says, and so Nannie
jumps up and dresses the baby, while her mother prepares the breakfast.

Was there ever stove like that! There's a pleasant smell to the polish
as it burns off, and the wood has such a crackling, cheery sound; and
the hot steam from the Indian cakes sends forth an inviting odor as the
brown sides are turned upward.

Never mind if it is midsummer! the windows are open, and the superfluous
heat escapes, and the fresh air mingles with and tempers the warmth of
the room, so that it is nice and comfortable; it is so much better and
more wholesome than the damp, dark basement. There is a slight tinge
upon baby's cheek already, and Nannie doesn't look quite so pale and
sickly as she stands before the little mirror to brush her hair. "Oh!
an attic's the place, mother! isn't it?" says she, as she danced about
the room with Winnie. "We can breathe better up here, and Winnie'll grow
stout and healthy, for the sun comes in here," and she smoothed her tiny
palm over a bright beam that lay upon the child's head, and kissed it as
if it were a living, grateful presence. Winnie, too, crowed, and jumped,
and twisted her wee fingers in the warm rays, and seemed quite conscious
that something great and good had happened to her. The mother
participated in the joy, but as they sat down to a comfortable
breakfast, and she missed the red features that had so long been
opposite, her knife and fork dropped from her hands, and the food was
salted with bitter tears.

"Mother," said Nannie, putting down her untasted cake, "ye'll be
breaking your heart for the dead father, and then what'll Winnie and me
do? I'll not eat a morsel till ye dry your tears and help me!" and she
folded her hands and sat gazing upon her mother, with the drops in her
own eyes, until she saw her make an effort to eat. It was a quiet meal,
though, and soon over, and the child was left to tidy the house, while
the mother went forth to sell her wares. She did not mind so much being
repulsed now, for even if she failed to profit by her day's labor, there
was a willing friend to fall back upon, so that there was no fear of
starving; so, with a light step, she trudged along, and the people
wondered what had come over the poor huckster woman.

There was such a winning, cheerful sound in her voice as she tapped at
the window and said, "Any thing to-day, ma'am?" they could not let her
go without purchasing something--a piece of tape, or a few pins, or a
bunch of matches. It did not matter if they were at breakfast, father
could wait a minute for his coffee, and mother would write an excuse for
the children to take to school, so they open the window, and make their
bargains, and hand out the pennies, and the happy woman goes tripping
along, lighter both in basket and heart, and the breakfast has an
uncommon relish, so all think as they gather around the table again.
Charity is a capital seasoner.

CHAPTER VII.

Mr. Bond sits beside his center-table with his legs crossed and his eyes
fixed upon the portrait. He wonders what Betty Lathrop would advise him
to do about the poor girl if she could speak. He hears a great deal
about spiritual manifestations and communications, but he has no faith
in them, and even if he had he wouldn't be guilty of disturbing a
departed soul unless for something of great moment.

He thinks he reads her approbation of his conduct, thus far, in the mild
eyes that seem to look encouragingly upon him. Good old man, it would
puzzle the saints to find fault with any of thy pure impulses!

He wonders if Nannie ever went to school, and if she has read the
Pilgrim's Progress? He'll take it round there some day, her education
mustn't be neglected, and she can't be spared from Winnie to go to
school now. He hasn't any body to care for, and why shouldn't he make
those children his especial charge! Puss rises slowly from the rug,
where she has been lying curled up this long time, shakes herself, and
puts her two fore paws on Mr. Bond's knees, as if to remind him that he
has something to care for and cherish, and then walks back again and
puts herself in the old position, while her great orbs are rolled up at
the master.

"It will not make any difference to you, puss," says Mr. Bond, leaning
over and stroking the warm fur; "there's milk enough for you and Winnie
too, and she'd have done it, I know," pointing upward to the portrait,
as if the cat understood it all; then he took his hat and cane in his
hand and went down stairs, stopping at his landlady's room to tell her
"if a poor little girl with a baby should come to see him, not to send
her away, but to let her go to his room and rest."

"Pretty piece of business!" said Mrs. Kinalden, as he left the house;
"tisn't any beggars' brats I'll have tracking the dirt up my stair-ways,
I'll warrant ye!" and she flourished her soup-ladle as if in defiance of
all such encroaches upon her blessed domain.

Mr. Bond didn't hear nor see it, though, for his elastic step was away
down the street, and if he had he would have thought it only Mrs.
Kinalden's way, and would not have taken offense at it. There was so
much that was bright and good in his own heart that he could not feel
the ill that was in other people's natures, and his life passed as
smoothly as if he were not continually subjected to petty annoyances
from those about him who imposed upon his forbearance and amiability.

Earth was beautiful to him, and so was life; there had been but one dark
spot in his whole existence, and that was when Betty Lathrop twined her
young arms around his great neck and told him she must die.

Her grave was very green, though, and there were roses of his own
planting around it, and a pure white lily; and there was a holy light
always visible to him just above it, as of an angel with glorious wings
hovering. He didn't feel as if she had departed wholly from him because
he could not see her bodily presence, for he knew that the love was
still with him, and this it was that shed such a halo all about his
pathway, and there can not be sadness nor gloom where such a
consciousness exists.

There are not many Peter Bonds in the world though!

CHAPTER VIII.

Oh! what a gleesome time Nannie had all the long summer day up so near
the blue heavens! There was a rapturous sort of joy in watching the
fleecy clouds as they played in the pure ether, and, while baby slept,
she would kneel down by the window with her head turned side-way upon
her arm, and look into the depths of the sky until she fancied she saw
the spirits beyond; and then her little soul would try to dream out the
mystery of being and immortality. She didn't think so much of this in
the damp dark cellar--every thing there seemed to draw her earthward;
but it was exalting, and refining, and purifying, to be up so near the
angels, and the change was manifested even in her face, which grew more
spiritual, and was really quite winning now.

Her happiness was almost perfect as she contrasted the sad past with the
bright present. There was only one thing more to long for, and that was
books. She could read very well, but all the literature she possessed
was Robinson Crusoe, which one of the ladies at the school had given
her, and that she had learned almost by heart, so that she sung page
after page to Winnie as she lulled her to sleep, and now she craved
something more. She was thinking so earnestly about it that she did not
hear Mr. Bond's knock, nor perceive that he had entered the room and
seated himself by the other window, until he touched her shoulder with
his cane across the table.

"Nannie," said he, as she started and asked his pardon for not noticing
him, "I've brought a book to lend you; would you like to read it?"

A book! Who could have told him that of all things in the world that was
what she most desired?

"Oh! thank you, sir," said she, as her eyes glistened for joy; "I'm so
glad of it, sir!" and she turned the leaves and looked at the
illustrations, while he watched her with a deep interest.

"She would know all that she need to know when she had read the Bible
and Pilgrim's Progress." So Mr. Bond thought. He had not noticed that
there was no Bible there. He forgot that there could be a person in the
world destitute of the precious Word of Life, and he would have gone off
without finding out Nannie's great need, if she had not reminded him of
it as she turned to the explanation of the allegory appended to the work
in her hand. "Oh! it tells about Heaven! doesn't it?" said she, looking
at her kind friend with a sparkling eye.

"Haven't you a Bible, Nannie?" asked he, seeking vainly for one about
the room.

"No, sir," replied the child. "We haven't had one for a long time. Miss
Earl gave me one at the school, but my father took it."

Poor soul! no food for thee, while the world is teeming with the blessed
Book! Tear off the gilt clasps, and the velvet bindings, and scatter the
healing leaves that are hidden within, all about among the people. Let
not one hungry one perish for lack of Heaven's bread while there is
enough and to spare lying all about useless! "Her father took it!" What
for? to learn the way to Paradise? Ah! no--to pawn for the hot liquid
that must drown him in perdition. And the dealer in the dreadful traffic
took it--dared to snatch from his fellow man the comforting words sent
unto him by a loving God, and to substitute instead the poisonous and
damning cup! Even Satan himself must loathe him! Mr. Bond sees it
all--he knows where the Book has gone. But Nannie shall have another,
and she must promise to study it every day.

"I'll send you one, Nannie," said he, "and a little stand to keep it
on--d'ye hear?" and the kind man hurried off to get the holy volume. To
think that he had not seen to that before! It was a moment of penitence
to good Mr. Bond.

CHAPTER IX.

It was nice for Winnie to sleep so sweetly! Now Nannie could look over
the book. It was far before Robinson Crusoe! She went with Christian
every step of his journey, and experienced the same joys, and suffered
the same terrors. Oh! it was so good of Mr. Bond to lend her this book!
She sat by the cradle with one hand upon it, so that if Winnie stirred
she could hush her; and she did not see the long shadows in the room,
nor remember that the fire must be made, and the table prepared for tea,
and the water brought, before her mother came, until it was too dark to
read any longer. Then she started up and got the pail. She was almost
afraid to go to the pump, for there were some very rude boys in its
vicinity, and she had never ventured out so late before. But she must
go; she was very wrong to put it off so, and she ran as quick as she
could with a beating and timid heart.

"That's the new gal, as lodges in Mrs. Flin's house where the fat man
goes so often," said a rough-looking lad to a ragged and dirty group,
that huddled about the walk.

"Let's have at her," returned another, and suiting the action to the
word, he flew along the street after the frightened child, with the
whole troup following him.

The little thing tried hard to out-run them; but 'twas in vain; they
were close upon her, and one had kicked the pail from her hand, while
another was about to tear the string from her neat sun-bonnet which he
had snatched from her head.

"Be off, or I'll bate the life out of every mother's son of ye, an' my
name's Pat Rourke," said a tall Irish boy who came up that moment,
laying about him right and left among the little brutes, who scampered
in every direction, not without a few wholesome bruises as witnesses to
Pat's bravery. "Come on, my little girl," added he, taking Nannie's
trembling hand, "I'll get the wather for ye;" and taking up the pail, he
filled it, and carried it quite to the child's room. "It's a purty place
ye have here," said he, looking from the windows, "and a nice little
sister," as Nannie took the waking child from the cradle. "Here let me
make the fire for ye," continued he, seeing the awkwardness of working
with a baby in her arms, "and don't go to the pump again, Pat Rourke's
the boy as'll get the wather, when he comes from the coal-yard o'
nights; ye may put the pail down by the door in the enthry, an' its
quickly ye'll find it filled;" and the noble-hearted boy stubbed out of
the room, with his heavy boots clumping down, down, down.

"Every body's good to me," thought Nannie, the ill usage of the moment
before quite forgotten in the joy at finding so kind a champion.

The room looked nice and cheery when Mrs. Bates returned. The new stand
was in the corner, with the new Bible upon it, and the table was spread
with a frugal, but wholesome meal; and Nannie seemed so bright, and the
baby so sprightly and well. Besides she had sold all her wares, at a
good profit, so that she was free from care for the time, at least.
Nannie had a great deal to tell about Mr. Bond, and the book he had
brought her, and of Pat Rourke, her manly protector; and the mother
began to think the bright days were dawning upon them indeed! She didn't
forget the sorrow that had so lately come to her; but there was a joy in
the children that was infectious, and her smiles were more frequent than
her tears.

CHAPTER X.

Mrs. Flin seemed to her new lodgers to be a quiet kind of body, keeping
her own house without minding much about her neighbors. The truth of it
was she held herself a good deal above them, for she was well to do in
the world. Besides she visited in the next street at the large white
house with green blinds, where they kept a hired girl, and to be sure
she didn't care for the people that took one or two rooms of her, and
lived in a small way, save for the money they paid her; she was pretty
sure to make them all a call once a quarter at least, and woe betide
them if the rent-money was not forthcoming! She didn't call herself a
hard-hearted woman; but she must look out for her own rights since Mr.
Flin was off at sea the greater part of the time, and there was nobody
to take the responsibility from her.

One thing troubled her considerably, and that was that such a
gentlemanly-looking man as Mr. Bond should lavish all his favors and
visits upon her poor lodger's children. She thought he might as well
stop sometimes on the first floor and notice her little Sammy; but he
never did--although she often met him in the entry, and invited him to
walk in and rest before going up the long flights of stairs--but went
panting upward with his gold-headed cane in his hand, and the ruffles to
his shirt rising and falling at every ascent.

Sammy was a sad little rascal, and would throw apple-skins on the entry
floor, and lay round pebbles on the lowest stair, hoping to trip the old
man up as he came in or went out, and Mr. Bond caught him at it, so that
he was always careful afterward to keep an eye to his feet. But the boy
stood in his own light, for there were no favors for him after that. Mr.
Bond never patronized wicked children.

His mother would manage to stand in the door, whenever she saw the
gentleman coming, with Sammy by her side, and she would ask him if he
wasn't fond of children, and tell him what a good boy Sammy was at
school, and how well he got on with his lessons; and then Sammy must
speak his last piece to Mr. Bond. But it would not do; he stood it all
very patiently, and when she had the grace to leave space enough for him
to pass her, he would make his bow and walk gravely on, glad to reach
the shelter of the pleasant attic. Mrs. Flin laid it up against him,
though, and threw out many an innuendo concerning his frequent visits to
the poor children, when gossiping with her friend of the white house,
and so it reached his landlady, Mrs. Kinalden, who knew Mr. and Mrs.
Airly very well.

"A strange how d'ye do it is," said she to Mr. Bond, one evening on his
return from Nannie's, "that I must keep my doors open till half past
nine o'clock, for you to be out on your untimely visits to a poor
widder! It isn't any sich doings Susan Kinalden'll countenance, you'd
better believe!"

Mr. Bond did not think her worth one moment's excitability, so he calmly
told her she could find another occupant for his room if she was
dissatisfied with his conduct, and he would seek a home elsewhere.

It was wonderful how changed she was when he went down to breakfast the
next morning. There were hot eggs beside his plate, and a dish of warm
toast, and the landlady was full of her compliments. "She didn't see how
Mr. Bond managed to look so fresh and young! She was on the sunny side
of fifty, and anybody would take him to be her brother!" and when he
asked her what time he should remove his furniture, she wondered he had
lived so long in the house with her and never yet found out her jesting
propensities. She's sure she couldn't desire a nicer or more circumspect
boarder than Mr. Bond! And so the matter passed over. She knew her own
interest too well to venture on forbidden ground again. And he had got
attached to the room, and did not care to leave it. The portrait had
occupied that same space for more than ten years, and there was a sacred
sort of feeling about the place that he could not find elsewhere. Puss
liked her quarters too, and it was not worth while to seek a change so
long as she didn't complain. Mr. Bond thought himself very foolish to
have proposed such a thing, and he went from his breakfast and settled
himself in his chair by his center-table, with a self-gratulation that
he hadn't got to move after all. As for Mrs. Kinalden, she could
scarcely forgive herself for incurring the risk of losing one of her
best and most permanent boarders, and her night had been spent in bitter
self-reproaches and regrets. The morning, however, compensated for the
night of grief, when she felt that Mr. Bond--good soul!--overlooked it
all, and was willing to stay. "It stands you in hand to mind your
tongue, though, Susan Kinalden," soliloquized she, as she wiped the last
dish and stood it up end-wise in her pantry. "It isn't the first time
you've come nigh biting your own head off!"

CHAPTER XI.

"Come in, Pat; mother'll be glad to see ye," said Nannie, as he put the
pail softly within the door, and was about retreating.

"Faith and that I will," said the woman warmly, opening the door wide,
and setting a chair for the boy, who seemed nothing loth to enter.

It was pleasant to find a clean spot to sit down in after his day's
labor, and the happy faces in that room had haunted him as a dream, too
good to be real, since he had first seen Nannie and Winnie. His home was
a disagreeable, shabby place, and his mother did not care to make it
otherwise, and Pat felt it a great privilege to go occasionally to see
his new friends. "It wasn't for nothing," thought he, "that I did the
good deed by the girl; it's many a pleasant hour I've had here since
that blessed night!" and he drew his chair up to the table where Nannie
had the big Bible open reading aloud to her mother.

"I'll keep right on here where I was reading, Pat," said she, "because
it's so beautiful," and she finished the description of the new
Jerusalem in the Revelation of St. John.

"That isn't for such as me, Nannie--is it?" asked the poor boy, who had
sat with his chin in his hand listening intently while the child was
reading.

"Oh! yes," answered Nannie; "you should hear Mr. Bond talk about it,
Pat. I couldn't believe that any of us would ever live in such a
beautiful place; but he says 'tis just as we have a mind; that if we are
good in this world, and do every thing that we know to be right, and try
to keep from what we feel is wrong, and love God, we shall go there when
we die; and I'm sure it is worth trying for--isn't it, Pat?" and Nannie
closed the Book, and placed it reverently upon the stand in the corner.

Her mother had been busy getting the supper, but she heard the words of
the blessed volume, and wiped away a tear with the corner of her apron
as she thought of him who could have no part in that glorious city. But
she mustn't let the children see her weep, so she put away her sorrow,
and stirred about, talking cheerfully the while, and Pat felt that there
was no place in the world like that neat cosey attic, and that Nannie
Bates's lot was one to be envied indeed.

He didn't know how long she had pined in the damp and dreary cellar with
nothing bright nor pretty near her, and how bitter all her days had been
until just before he had befriended her--after Mr. Bond had provided her
new home--for she had never told him any thing of the past. Indeed she
scarcely ever dwelt upon it herself, for there was so much gladness for
her now that she forgot all about any other time, and so her cheeks
grew round and ruddy, and nobody would have thought her the same child
that sat upon the steps of the great house in ---- street one sunny day,
some time before, with a pinched-looking little baby in her arms. Pat
thought her the prettiest girl he had ever seen, and she fairly
worshiped his great Irish face and the yellow hair that hung straight
over his forehead. Winnie, too, would cling to him, and lay her little
soft cheek to his red coarse face, and clasp her tiny arms about his
neck, and play with the yellow locks as if they were the sunbeams
themselves; and then she would jump and crow as he played bo-peep with
her, and stretch out her wee hands and cry as he turned away and went
tramping down the stairs. Pat knew how to win young hearts--there was
always a cake of gingerbread in his pocket, or a stick of candy for
Winnie, or a new rattle or something for Nannie, and both learned to
watch for his coming with glad emotions.

He brought a rose-bush and a petunia for Nannie, and made a shelf for
them by the window, and the beauteous buds came thick and fast, shedding
out their fragrance in the sunny room, and making it still more
delightful to Nannie. She would sit where the breeze wafted the pleasant
odor to her, and, closing her eyes, fancy herself in Paradise, and she
would watch the sun that she might catch every one of its warm rays for
her plants.

She had never dreamed of getting so high up in the world as to have
real flowers blooming in their own room. She thought such things were
only for the rich; but she had yet to learn that there are many comforts
and blessings that all may freely enjoy if they have only the taste and
disposition, and that the poorest habitation may, at least, be made to
bring forth the precious blossoms of hope and joy at the will of its
inmates.

CHAPTER XII.

"Oh! there's the poor girl with the baby, that lives in the cellar,
Biddy!" said little May Minturn, a few weeks after she had given her the
blanket. "See how fat the baby's grown!" and the child ran after Nannie,
who was walking at a quick pace to avoid her, for she would gladly have
hidden from her the fate of her gift; but May was not to be shunned, and
she pulled at Nannie's shawl as she came up with her, and said, "Don't
carry the baby away, I want to see her. Oh! she looks more like my sissy
now, for she's got a little pink in her cheeks; but what have you done
with the blanket? this isn't half so pretty as the one I gave you," and
she looked inquiringly at Nannie, who had seated herself upon some steps
to rest, and pulled aside the flannel that enveloped the babe, thus
exposing its naked feet.

"Don't be offended, miss, and I'll tell you what became of it," said
Nannie; "before Winnie had time to wear it once, some one took it from
her and sold it. I sorrowed for it a great deal, but that wouldn't bring
it back, and now Winnie must wear this one; 'twill keep her warm, but I
know it isn't pretty."

"Are not you afraid in that dark room?" asked May, sitting down on the
step beside the girl, and taking hold of the baby's hand.

"Oh! we don't live there now," said Nannie, in a gleeful tone. "We have
a beautiful home way up close by heaven!" and she gazed up into the sky
and felt how much further off she then was than in her new home.

"May I go there to see you?" said the little girl, "and will you go with
me to heaven to see my brother a little while? Mamma says he's there,
and I'd like so much to play with him!"

"But we can not go there till we die," replied Nannie. "I look up from
my window sometimes until I think I see the angels, and then I almost
want to fly right away to them; but Mr. Bond says God will take us when
he wants us, and that it is wicked to be impatient."

"Did you see my Georgie up there?" asked May, drawing closer to Nannie,
and looking still more earnestly at her. "He had on a white frock, with
a satin ribbon around his waist, and he had curls just like mine and
sissy's. If you say Georgie, Georgie, perhaps he'll answer you as he
used to mamma. Don't you think God will take us pretty soon?" continued
she, patting the baby's head, and leaning over to kiss its brow, "I'm
all ready to go, and Georgie wants me, too."

"Shure, and the child'll be an angel before long, I'm thinking!" said
Biddy, as May arose and took her hand to go home; "the misthress would
be greeting sair if she heard all her little prattle."

Nannie gazed after the wee figure as it went up the street beside the
nurse, and then she looked at the baby that was nestling its tiny head
upon her bosom, and she felt that there was a sort of mysterious link
between Winnie and the sweet child whose kiss was fresh upon her
forehead. The feeling made her shudder, and she hugged her little sister
closer to her breast, as she thought,

"Mayhap both may soon be wanted above!"

Home did not look so bright to her that evening. Something seemed to be
threatening evil, and she sat listless and abstracted, when her mother
came home, looking from the window. She did not even see her mother,
until she put a hand upon each of her shoulders and asked her "if she
was napping?"

"Oh! no, mother, I'm not dozing, and I'm not ill; but there's something
coming to Winnie, I know there is. It isn't long that she'll brighten
the house!" said Nannie, trembling with emotion.

"Don't be foolish, child," said her mother, after she had ascertained
that her precious babe was sleeping sweetly in its cradle, "Winnie's
growing stout and healthy, and it's thankful we should be, instead of
fretting for fear there'll be sorrow to come."

Nannie shook her head mournfully, and took her knitting from the table,
but her heart was more busy with its sad reflections than were her
fingers with the young babe's sock. She did not even notice Pat much
that evening; but merely took the great apple that he handed her with a
quiet "thank ye;" and then relapsed into her silent and thoughtful mood.

Pat would not stay to sit down, for Nannie had not seconded her mother's
invitation, and the disappointed boy only lingered to take one peep
under the curtain of the cradle of Winnie, and then went home to his
abode with a downcast mien, and a slow gait.

CHAPTER XIII.

Mr. Bond had not been to see them for a great while, and the cold
weather was coming, and there were hard times in store for them, if they
did not manage to get some sewing, or something to do. It was the first
of November, and the breeze was no longer soft and bland, as it came
from the blue waters upward into the little room, but it was fresh and
chilly, and had a mournful tone, and Nannie got cotton and stuffed the
windows tight to keep it out. There was but little fuel in the house,
and scarcely any money for their next quarter's rent, and Mrs. Flin had
been up a day or two before to warn them that they must leave if the
funds were not ready by a certain time. Mrs. Bates had fallen down
stairs by means of one of Master Sammy's round pebbles, and lamed
herself, so that she was no longer able to trudge about with her basket,
and where she had applied for sewing, they told her there were more
applicants than work, and so she did not know what to do.

"To-morrow's rent-day, Nannie," said she with a sigh, "and I have but a
dollar put by toward the twelve. I shall have to send you round to see
Mr. Bond, child, and it's me that's ashamed to do that after all he's
done for us; but it can't be helped! It's unfortunate we've been the
last month, and shure he'll not be blaming the Providence as brought it
to us!"

So Nannie put on her old hood and cloak, and went timidly up to Mrs.
Kinalden's door. The old lady's aspect was rather forbidding, as she
answered the bell, and found only a beggar child had summoned her from
her dinner-pot, and she was about to slam the door in her face, when
Nannie said,

"It's Mr. Bond I'm wanting to see, ma'am, if you please."

Mrs. Kinalden would have been glad to send the child away; but she
remembered the past, and dared not venture; so she told her to be sure
and wipe her feet clean, and then she ushered her up stairs to the
bachelor's-room. Nannie knocked softly, and as she heard a faint voice
say "Come in," she opened the door and entered. One glance revealed it
all. Mr. Bond had been sick--very ill--and she had never once been to
inquire about him. He sat propped up in his easy-chair, with a flowered
dressing-gown about him, and his head against a pillow, and there was a
warm fire in the fire-place, and bowls standing about with bread-water,
and gruel, and arrow-root in them--and labeled vials were upon the
table, so that she felt he had really been in some danger. Besides, his
face was thin and pale and wrinkled, and she would scarcely have
recognized him as the fat jolly old man who used to have hardly a lap
for little Winnie to perch upon.

"Oh! it's you, Nannie, is it?" said he, with the same pleasant tone as
of old, and with one of his broad, beaming smiles that played over his
hollow cheeks mockingly. "Didn't come to see your old friend all these
three weeks, and he too ill to get off from his bed. He wouldn't have
served you so, Nannie, that he wouldn't!" and he looked half
reproachfully, half jestingly at the serious face of the young girl.

"And we were all the time wondering if ye'd deserted us, sir," said
Nannie, as she stood by the table twisting her apron over her finger;
"and never a word of your illness did we hear, or the days would not
have slipped away and we not have been to ye! Maybe ye were needing
somebody to nurse ye, and ye lying alone here with no hand to give the
medicines?" and she looked inquiringly at him.

"Mrs. Kinalden has been as attentive as she could be with her cares,
Nannie," replied the patient old man; "but the pillows would have lain a
little easier if a little girl that I know of had come in sometimes to
shake them up for me, and perhaps the bed would have been softer for
making over once in a while." How quickly the old hood and cloak went
off, and the nimble hands shook and beat the sick man's bed until it was
as plump as a partridge--and she put on the clothes so smoothly that
there was not a wrinkle in them; then she arranged the glasses and vials
nicely upon the table, and washed the spoons, and warmed him some gruel,
and she read a psalm to him, and then donned her things again to go;
but she hadn't said a word about the need at home, and perhaps she would
not have remembered it until she had returned to her mother had not Mr.
Bond said, "Nannie, how are you getting along now? Let's see,
to-morrow's rent-day, isn't it? and hard times, too. Hand me the wallet
out of that desk there, child, I must see you through this cold
weather," and he counted out twelve dollars and tied them in a corner of
her handkerchief. "So your mother's not able to go out any more," said
he, as Nannie told him of the trouble. "Well, we'll see what can be
done; you mustn't suffer, d'ye hear? and mind you come every day to make
my bed while I'm sick, 'twill save Mrs. Kinalden some work--and I guess
'twill suit me better," added he, as he glanced at the inviting-looking
nest that had not before shown its proper proportions since his illness.
"Here, take this orange to Winnie," said he, as the child moved toward
the door; "I'll be round there in a few days," and he looked brighter
than he did a half hour before. "I wonder what there is in a child's
presence to make things so sunny," thought Mr. Bond, as the young girl
left the room. "Her little hands seem to have glossed over every thing
they touched, and the gruel had a relish that that old woman could never
give."

It was willing hands that made the difference, good Mr. Bond. A sick
bed's a hard place for one who has no kind and voluntary attention. Call
in experienced nurses and skillful physicians--pay them more than the
half of your substance--send out for all the luxuries a diseased palate
may crave--it won't do, Mr. Bond, it won't do; there needs a loving
heart to anticipate all your wants, and a tender hand to bathe the
fevered brow and smooth the uneasy pillow, and a low sweet voice to
whisper soothing words in your ear; then it's a sort of pleasure to lie
so languid and careless, and watch the gliding motions of your quiet
nurse, and feel that you are getting on so comfortably.

Mr. Bond didn't need to be told all this; he felt it, as day after day,
during his convalescence, the little feet came tripping up the stairs,
and the child's glad hands ministered unto him; and, after she had made
all tidy and had gone out and closed the door softly behind her, he
would lie gazing at the youthful features of the bonnie lassie upon the
wall, and wonder how many more times he should be so near her, and yet
not be permitted to go. "Mustn't be impatient," that's what you told
Nannie, isn't it, Mr. Bond? there's a great deal for you to accomplish
yet in your master's vineyard before the reward comes; the walls are
broken down all about, and there's many a tender vine exposed to the
wild boar and the beasts of the field, and it is for you to help repair
the breaches before you go hence to rest from your labors.

CHAPTER XIV.

Pat had not seen his old friends for many days, for Nannie was a good
deal out with the basket now her mother was confined to the house, and,
somehow, her manner toward him the last time he was there made him feel
shy, as if he was not wanted there any more. Still the pail was filled
as usual, and stood beside the door, with many a nice and pretty thing
for the baby. Mrs. Bates wondered why she never heard him come up the
stairs now, and if he had got tired of playing with Winnie, and if his
own home had grown more pleasant. She didn't know how often he had put
his ear to the key-hole to see if he could hear one of baby's gleesome
laughs, or the sound of Nannie's voice reading aloud, or talking to her
mother. Nannie caught him this time, though, as she returned from her
labors, and the boy's face grew redder still, as if he had been detected
in some mean act, but her good-natured smile reassured him, and he found
his tongue.

"It's listening for Winnie I am," said he, "and I've not seen her swate
face the week."

"But, Pat, why haven't you been here this long time?" asked Nannie,
opening the door and leading him in as if he were a child.

Pat felt that she would think him very foolish if he told her the reason
of his absence, so he kept silent, but he was happier than he had been
for many a day, as he sat in his old seat with Winnie snuggled close to
his breast. Winnie reciprocated the delight, but her demonstrations were
very violent; she slapped Pat's face with her rosy palms, and pulled his
hair, and bit his fingers with her aching teeth, forgetting the while
the painful gums that had made her so wearisome all the day.

Nannie was uncommonly cheerful, for all was right now, and Mr. Bond was
well enough to visit them on the morrow, and Pat was back again, and
they were to remain in the pleasant attic for another quarter at least,
and mother had some work that promised a good profit, so there was no
pressing want upon them just now. Mr. Bond had sent some shirts to be
made against the summer. He did not like the common way of bestowing
charity. He always required an equivalent for what he handed out. He
would not have Nannie grow up with the feeling that she was a beggar, so
he found something to be done, and paid good round prices for the work.
Mrs. Bates stitched so busily, thinking he needed the garments all the
while. She didn't quite understand Mr. Bond, though! It didn't matter to
him if there were piles on piles of pure white linen in his great
trunks. What if somebody did get the good of them after his death! he
did not care to take his worldly treasure with him, but was quite
willing to leave a goodly portion for the benefit of others; besides,
many a worthy man owed his prim Sunday suit to those same heaped-up
chests, and it would have done you good to see the broad ruffles
bedecking the sons of Erin as they escorted their sweethearts to
vespers. They would cross themselves, and murmur a prayer for the
"masther," heretic though he was, and they knew they would get him out
of Purgatory, if masses and penances would avail. As for Nannie and her
mother, it was dangerous to say a word against their benefactor in their
presence. Nobody had ever dared the thing excepting Mrs. Flin, and she
would not encounter such a belaboring of tongues again for all the
bachelors in the world. Pat, too, was his most enthusiastic admirer, for
he had encouraged his going to spend his evenings in the neat attic
rather than crawl to his own miserable abode to be contaminated with the
fumes of rum and tobacco, and the scurrilous example of his abandoned
parents.

It was a wonder to the good man that there could be a spark of virtue in
the boy's character, and that he had been so far preserved from the
taint of his vile home as to care for the purity of his gentle
neighbor's. He did not remember how beautiful the contrast must be to
Pat as he came from his mother's den of infamy, where rags and dirt
prevailed, to the neat and cleanly dwelling, and the pure, bright, happy
faces of Mrs. Bates and her two children.

It wasn't his fault that the woman who had dared to take upon herself
the sacred name of mother, had spurned the terrible responsibility
consequent upon that assumption, and cast her children from her bosom
out into the wicked world, with never a care, nor a blessing, nor a
prayer; it wasn't his fault that his infant soul had been even more
pitiably neglected than the uncared-for body; it wasn't his fault that
the little hands were taught to fight and steal rather than lift
themselves up toward a gracious father to invoke His love and blessing,
or that the words of blasphemy were frequent on the lips that were made
for prayer and praise. He could think of a time when his childish knees
had bent before the good God, of whom a kind friend had told him, and
his own mother--who should have been prostrate beside him in penitence
for her sins both against him and her Maker--shouted her ribald songs
even in his unwilling ears. No wonder Mr. Bond thought it strange that
Pat had any yearning left for the good and the exalted. But his heart
did heave mightily beneath the mass of corruption that his own parents
had heaped above it, and he felt it gradually loosening, so that the Sun
of righteousness gleamed upon it, though dimly. It was something to have
even that faint light to show him the loathsomeness of his condition,
and it helped him wonderfully in his efforts to cast the burden wholly
from him. It was no mystery to him that "Christian" felt such a relief
when it was quite gone, and that he hastened onward toward the end of
his journey with a light and free step. It was not for nothing that the
poor boy helped Nannie Bates in the hour of her need, the blessing was
coming, life was just beginning for him.

CHAPTER XV.

It was a bitter cold day, and the winds whistled through the cordage of
the shipping and came moaning up, beating against the corked windows;
but it was of no use they could not get in, for Nannie had stuffed the
cotton in all the cracks as tight as she could, so that there was not
even a crevice left, and they had to go whirling back again to play
their old tricks among the rigging of the vessels. Oh! it was so
pleasant to watch the dark waves as they tossed and foamed, while the
boats bounded buoyantly over them. Nannie did not care for the frost,
nor for the fresh chill breeze, for the stove was red with warmth, and
she had not to go out that day. Mr. Bond was coming, and she had a
holiday. Now and then her face grew a little long as she thought
"perhaps it might be too cold for him to venture out;" but it was round
and cheery again as the sound of his well-known step was upon the
stairs.

"Heigh-ho, here!" said he, as little Winnie crept toward him and clasped
her tiny arms around his leg; "hasn't forgotten its old friend, has it?"
and he lifted the child up, seating it upon his shoulder as he moved
toward a rocking-chair. "Not quite well, yet, ma'am," replied he to
Mrs. Bates' inquiry after the state of his health. "This north-wester's
rather too strong for me now;" and he panted, and put Winnie down while
he took off his mufflers. "Had to wrap up well this cold day, you see,
but couldn't disappoint these little folks;" and he patted Winnie's head
and re-instated her upon his knee. She did not keep slipping off as she
used to do before Mr. Bond's illness, but had a very comfortable seat
now, and her hands remembered the full pockets they had so often rifled,
and went rummaging about to see if the times were unchanged.

The goodies came tumbling all about the floor, and the old man was as
merry as the children who scrambled after the sugar-plums--Winnie
cramming her little mouth until they tumbled out again for want of room.
"How do the shirts get on, my good woman?" said Mr. Bond, as he watched
the needles flying through the snowy cloth.

"I'll have 'em for ye before long, sir," replied Mrs. Bates, hastening
her stitches as fast as she could; "I'd spare the time from my sleep
rather than ye should be wanting them, sir."

"Oh! never mind, never mind," said the kind man; "I'm not in any great
need, only there's plenty more work when that's done. Where's Pat,
Nannie?" continued he, addressing the girl who was minding Winnie; "does
he come often to see you, and do you read to him, too?"

"He'll be here the day to see ye, sir," answered Nannie, with a joyous
expression; "we've got most through the Progress, and we read in the
Bible, too, every day, and Pat's as good a boy now as ye'd wish to see."

"He's got a sad home, Nannie," said Mr. Bond, "and his father and
mother'll pull him down again if they can, but we must help him to stand
upright. I depend upon you, Nannie," and he looked at her as if he
thought there was great might in her aid.

"It's little I can do, sir, save the reading," said she, looking
slightly grave, as if too much was expected of her.

"But you can keep him from bad associates," replied her benefactor, "and
the half is done then. He loves this quiet place, and you can make it
pleasant to him here, so that he will see how much happier it is to live
peacefully and Christianlike than to be carousing and drinking as they
do in his own home. Poor Pat!" continued he, gazing thoughtfully into
the fire, "it's been a sad life to him, but the good is to come."

Nannie thought it had been a sad life to them all until Mr. Bond found
them out, but she felt that the future would be bright enough if they
might see his kind face once in awhile, and she did not trouble herself
with the past now, that was all over, and the days were as merry as
merry could be. To be sure her basket was heavy, and her feet weary
almost every day, but what cared she for that so long as she could come
to so glad a home, and have only kind words and loving faces about her.
Mr. Bond did not worry much about Pat after he saw his frank face
peering in at the door. "Come in, Pat," said he, as the lad shuffled
forward to greet him. "I'm glad to see you, my boy!"

"It's much changed ye are with the sickness," said Pat; "but ye're the
same in your heart, I'll ever believe."

Pat was greatly changed, too, his friend could plainly see that as he
scanned the boy's features. He had grown so manly, and seemed to feel
such a self-respect--not a bold, disagreeable assurance, but a sort of
rough, unassuming dignity that was both pleasant and becoming. He did
not sit down with his hat on, and his chair tilted backward, and chatter
and jabber as if he were of quite as much importance as his benefactor,
but stood respectfully, with uncovered head, and answered Mr. Bond's
questions modestly and politely, and waited to be asked before he made
himself at home in the presence of his superior.

A very pleasant time they all had in the nice attic, and they dwelt upon
it for many days afterward with a peculiar pleasure. It was not often
that Mr. Bond could come to see them now, for he was not as strong as
before his illness, and the snow came early to keep him in also, and
Nannie consoled herself by enumerating his virtues to Pat, who quite
agreed with her that "he was fit to be a saint."

CHAPTER XVI.

You need not step softly to-night, Pat, though the baby is sleeping. She
will not hear your heavy boots, tramp they never so loudly up the
stairs. Never mind the doll you have in your hand for her--her eyes will
not open to look upon it. Lift the latch quietly, though, for there is
grief in the room, and noise comes harshly and gratingly upon a
sorrowing ear. Nannie can not look up to greet you, neither can her
mother welcome you now, though your silent presence may be grateful to
them both. Winnie does not spring up in her cradle, with her merry
laugh, and stretch out her little hands toward you. She will not twine
her wee fingers in your yellow locks any more, nor try to pick the big
moles off your hard hands. She is lying very still upon her soft pillow.
Her nicest white dress is smoothed down on her tiny form, and her hair
is parted upon a marble brow. There's a little coffin on the table, and
you know who is to occupy it; but it is too sudden, too dreadful for you
to realize at once! Do not try to take her up, nor warm the cold cheek
against your own burning face. The blood is quite chilled in the blue
veins, and the limbs fall passively down. There's a bud from Nannie's
bush in one hand, but she does not hold it first to your nostrils and
then to her own, with her cunning little ways, as she used to do. Do not
ask them how it all happened; how can they tell you, and their hearts
almost breaking? They did not even hear the angel's wings as he came to
bear away the sweet babe. All they knew was, that there was a convulsive
movement of the little limbs, and then they were rigid forever.

There's a terrible gloom all about, and it oppresses them with its
strange weight; but they hardly know that the baby is gone from them. Is
she not there in the cradle, as she is every day at this hour, and are
they not all very quiet for fear of disturbing her? Or, are they all
dreaming, and is a horrible nightmare upon them, from which they vainly
strive to arouse themselves? Pat can not see Nannie so listless, and so
white, with the vacant stare, and not speak to her; so he goes round by
the side of the cradle where she is, and hands her the doll. "It's for
Winnie," said he, and the big drops fell from his full eyes upon her
hand. There's great power in sympathy, and Nannie can weep now; so can
the mother, and there comes a sort of peace over the group, that was not
there before. Nannie gets up and gathers all the little playthings
together and puts them away with the doll; but it is too much! it gives
the place such a forlorn aspect; and she takes them out again and
scatters them, as if it would bring Winnie back, too. The night is very
sad, and so is the morrow; and the next day Mr. Bond comes with a
minister. Winnie is lifted into the narrow coffin, and a fresh bud
graces her breast. Mr. Bond stands a long time gazing upon her white,
white brow, and he fancies he sees a hallowed impress there, as of a
Divine hand. He can not help his strong emotion. Wasn't Winnie getting
deeper and deeper down into his heart every day, and can he see the
little head that lay so often upon his bosom, covered with the cold
earth! The minister thinks her very lovely, as she lies there so free
from spot of sin, and he almost wonders they can weep over her early
release from a world of effort, and toil, and care; but he knows what a
struggle it is to give up a parent's richest possessions, for there are
little ones that used to call him father, now lying beneath the snow,
and he weeps with the afflicted, as he reads the burial-service over
their darling.

There needs but one carriage for the mother and Nannie, and Mr. Bond,
and Pat; and the little coffin is placed on a seat in the middle. They
can not leave it until it is hidden from their sight.

CHAPTER XVII.

"Nannie must go to school," said Mr. Bond to himself the day after the
child's burial. "It won't do for her to stay there moping and pining
after little Winnie! The baby's gone, and it won't bring her back
again."

And so it was settled that she was to begin the next Monday. Mr. Bond
thought it better that she should go to the parish school immediately in
her vicinity, and connected with the church which he attended--not that
he wished to free himself from the slight tax demanded by private
teachers, for many a comfortable donation ten times the worth of so
small a pittance, found its way into the parish treasury from his
liberal purse. Oh! no, that wasn't Mr. Bond's reason. He knew that the
child would be under a good and religious influence there, for besides
being well taught, she would be daily gathered with the rest of the
little lambs into the consecrated chapel, and be made to feel that her
moral culture was of still greater importance than the mental. Besides
he liked to know that she was under the eye of some good shepherd who
would lead her safely on to the great and ever green pasture. It would
be so pleasant to him, too, to see the object of his benevolence and
care Sunday after Sunday, pattering up the broad aisle to her seat, and
joining in the solemn and beautiful worship. He didn't believe she had
ever been to church in her life; he ought to have inquired into that
before. Poor Mr. Bond! here was another subject for penitence. So much
as he thought of such privileges and blessings for himself, too! He was
afraid he was not fit for such a responsibility as the one he had
assumed! Well, the minister would help him; that was a comforting
thought.

Nannie was delighted at the idea of studying. She had a quick and
inquisitive mind, and she looked at the little parcel of books that her
good friend brought her with a glad eye, and when Monday came she took
her satchel, and long before the hour, was on her way to school, with a
quick step and a buoyant expression.

There was no task in getting her off to her books, as there is in many a
case where advantages come more lavishly. She felt that the blessing was
too great to be sufficiently estimated. Her teacher long ago had told
her that whatever of knowledge was gained in this world would not be
lost, but that if rightly applied, it would make her spirit brighter,
and fit it for a continually increasing and glorious expansion in the
life to come; and she had wisdom enough to know that every intellectual
acquirement was adding to the talent intrusted to her, and thus honoring
the gracious Giver. So she determined to strive earnestly to improve
her new privileges, and thus repay her benefactor as well as adorn her
own mind.

The morning was very beautiful as she tripped along in the pure snow.
The flakes had fallen thick and fast the day before, and now lay in
feathery heaps all over the trees and fences and trellises, and there
was but just a narrow path for her feet to tread upon. Men and boys were
all about with their shovels, busily working, and the pure mass was
tossed quickly from the walks. Snow-balls were flying at the peoples'
heads, and many parties were already moving briskly over the smooth
surface, and the bells were jingling gayly, and there was a healthful
glow upon every body's face.

Nannie couldn't feel very joyous, for she thought of the little form
that lay so still and breathless under the tiny mound; but the scene
before her inspired her with cheerfulness, and she trudged on trying to
be happy with the rest. She was just before May Minturn's door--she
could not forget the house--hadn't she sat on those steps with dear
Winnie, and hadn't little May spoken kindly to her, and kissed baby,
too? It recalled her sister to her so vividly that the tears would not
be stayed, and she let them flow. Just then the door opened, causing her
to look up; there was a black crape tied to the bell, with a white
ribbon, and she knew that either May, or the little sissy that she used
so often to speak of, was dead.

"Is that for May," asked she, as Biddy spoke softly to her from the top
step; and she pointed to the funeral emblems that were floating in the
wintry breeze. "And may I see her, Biddy?"

"Shure, and that ye may," said Biddy, "and it's Winnie she was calling
the day she died, jist before the life left her swate body; and how is
the babby?" asked she, as Nannie followed her to the drawing-room.

"She's gone where May is," replied the sister, suppressing her sobs as
far as she was able; "I knew they'd be wanted there!" and she stopped
for the nurse to admit a little more light into the darkened room.

How beautiful little May was in her quiet repose! She lay upon the sofa
with her soft curls falling over the calm forehead, and flowers covered
the pillow, and her hands were folded upon her gentle breast as if they
had done all their little work on earth.

Mrs. Minturn had seen Nannie enter the room, and she knew her as the
child May had so often spoken about, and she went softly in where they
were and stood beside the sofa, so pale and calm in her sorrow that
Nannie was almost frightened. She noticed Nannie as she kissed the still
sleeper, and smoothed down the silken hair lovingly, and she severed one
beautiful lock and laid it in the poor girl's hand. Biddy had told her
mistress of Winnie, and she had felt that the two children were as
sisters in that Spirit land, and so she spared the precious curl. Oh!
how Nannie treasured it. It seemed such a sacred thing to her to possess
something that the finger of death had hallowed, and when she went home
she folded it in a soft paper and put it within the cover of the big
Bible, and often she drew it reverently forth, in after years, as she
dwelt upon the two seraphs whose forms she could distinguish amid the
angel band.

CHAPTER XVIII.

Mrs. Bates sat alone in the quiet room, sewing all the day, while Nannie
was at school. It was so very still that it was oppressive to her.
Winnie's cradle occupied the same spot as when the babe was in it--she
could not put it out of sight; and the little garments hung about the
room on the pegs in the corners. The wintry sun came faintly in and
shone upon the pillow of the tiny bed, and the mother, ever and anon,
cast her tearful glances to the spot that was consecrated by the
sweetest of memories. A rag-baby, that had shared Winnie's affections as
well as her pillow, still lay within the sheets, as the child's hands
had often placed it. The tin cup and spoon were upon the mantle, and the
playthings were gathered into an old willow basket, their wonted
receptacle when Winnie was there to use them. How often had she pulled
them, one by one, from their resting-place, and then restored them with
an untiring interest, only needing occasionally an encouraging glance
from mother to keep her contented by the hour together! It seemed to
Mrs. Bates as if she must still look up from her needle to give the
child some frequent sign of her care and love, but as her eye fell upon
the vacant space, it was almost too much for the overcharged heart, and
it required all her energies to master her grief sufficiently to keep
about her accustomed duties.

The poor have little leisure to nurse their sorrows: there was Nannie
left to toil for, and it was unfitting her for her necessary labors to
give vent to the rising anguish, therefore she choked back the bitter
sighs and tears, and plied her needle diligently, trying to think only
of the mercies left her. She had still plenty of work. It was wonderful
how many friends Mr. Bond had who could supply her with employment.
There were little dresses, and pinafores, and numerous other small
articles of clothing, always ready for her. She did not know how many a
needy household owed its replenishing to this same stock of ready-made
clothing which good Mr. Bond kept constantly on hand. He did not wait to
see whether such and such a thing would be needed before he had it made,
but wherever he found a ragged child he sent a suit from his
well-stocked wardrobe, and an abundant blessing flowed back upon him,
repaying him an hundredfold for clothing the naked and destitute.

Mrs. Kinalden once in awhile caught sight of the miniature suits through
the brown paper envelops that, somehow, got torn on their way to the
batchelor's room, and her indignation knew no bounds.

"It's a shame and a disgrace," said she to herself, "that he should
tarnish my house with such things, and then have the boldness to look me
in the face!" But luckily for her, she only said it to herself, and Mr.
Bond, conscious of his own integrity, kept on his even way, scattering
blessings wherever he went, and never imagining that his very Christian
deeds were the occasion of many an unjust query on the part of his
curious and suspicious landlady.

She, poor soul! fumed and fretted inwardly until the gloss and shine
were quite gone from her widowed cheeks, leaving them really sallow and
wrinkled. There's nothing like a contented, happy disposition, Mrs.
Kinalden, to preserve one's youth and beauty. You need not brush up your
fading charms before your tell-tale mirror, and try to restore your lost
luster by artificial means; it won't effect any thing. The fact is, the
trouble is internal. You must cleanse first the inner man of the heart,
and you will be surprised at the reflection of your own face then, it
will change into such a mysterious winsomeness! Never mind Mr. Bond's
actions--they can not lie at your door, but take care that your own are
as free from taint as your inexplicable neighbor's. It is not for you to
see the hidden motives that govern those about you; the best way for you
is to think favorably of every body, and you have no idea how much peace
and comfort it will bring to your own soul.

Mrs. Bates had never dreamed of questioning her benefactor's deeds, they
showed their uprightness upon the very face of them, and she had no
fellowship with her gossiping neighbors, to whose flings she could not
always be deaf. Mrs. Flin began to be more social, much to her regret,
for she had little sympathy with her loquacious guest. What was it to
her if the Airly's did keep a span, and drive out every day? she was
willing Mrs. Flin's friends should accumulate riches, and enjoy them,
too, if she did live in an humble attic, and stitch from morn till night
for her daily bread. What if Mrs. Airly had a new silk, spring and fall,
and was getting in with such good society? It did not make her a whit
the less thankful for her scanty yet neat wardrobe, nor for the few
friends it was her fortune to possess. She didn't mind if Master Sammy
was to go to a select school! She had all confidence in Mr. Bond's
judgment concerning Nannie, and rejoiced that she could feel so easy as
to the child's moral culture. She didn't care for Mrs. Flin's foolish
prattle about her great acquaintances, and her own future anticipations
of a higher station. It was not half of it that she heard; but if one
sly innuendo was sent at the good man to whom she was so much indebted,
there was a determined look that cowed the slanderous tongue before it
could speak out its full meaning. Oh! what a relief was it to the poor
widow to see the last of Mrs. Flin's bombazine gown floating out the
door, and to be sure that she was free from a repetition of the
annoyance of her company, for the day at least.

The thought of her angel child, and the solitude of her quiet home
accorded better with her sad and contemplative mood, than the foolish
clatter of her simple neighbor's gossiping member, and right glad was
she that her acquaintance extended no further than to her kind
benefactor, and to the noble and honest Pat.

CHAPTER XIX.

"Oh! mother," said Nannie, throwing her hood upon the table and brushing
the hair off from her flushed forehead, "school's so nice! Miss Coit's
one of the dearest ladies; and she says I'll be one of her best scholars
if I keep on as I've begun; and we have such beautiful singing, and
Christmas is 'most here, and then we are to have a tree hung all over
with presents for the children! Won't it be grand, mother?" and she laid
her hand on her mother's arm to force her to stop working and attend to
her.

"Yes, yes," said Mrs. Bates, "it's glad I am for ye, Nannie; but what's
that in your hand, child?" taking the paper and looking upon the little
curl within.

"Oh! mother," replied Nannie in a sad tone, "it's May Minturn's, she
that loved our baby, and she's gone where Winnie is; and her mother's
such a pale sweet lady! She gave me this, because she said May and
Winnie are as sisters up in heaven."

That was such a pleasant thought to Mrs. Bates. She was too sensible a
woman to wish to do away with the distinctions which are productive of
much good in this life, but it was a happiness to feel that in the
other world, the good and pure could all mingle as brethren; that
despoiled of the external marks of roughness which make so much
difference here, the spirit could appear in its real loveliness so that
it would be neither loathsome nor repulsive. She did not expect those
who were fitted by the advantages of education and refinement for a high
position in life, to stoop to an equality with those whose more humble
stations were wisely allotted them. She appreciated their self-denial
and kindness in seeking out the lowly ones, and aiding them in their
efforts to struggle upward, and no taint of envy or hatred toward those
whom God had chosen to place above her in this world, ever found its way
to her heart. So with a meek and contented mind she pursued her quiet
way, never murmuring because of blessings withheld, but grateful for the
unmerited favors so richly heaped upon her. She had a great deal to be
thankful for! Nannie was in a good way, and Pat was just like a son to
her, doing her errands, and helping her about the wood and water as if
she were his own mother. He had come to board with them now, for it had
grown so bad in his own home, and he had vainly tried to make it
better--so he left them altogether, and Mrs. Bates had a rough couch
constructed, and she covered it with neat print; and there in the outer
room Pat slept. He was up betimes in the morning, and had the fire made
and the kettle on to boil, and then he heard Nannie study, while her
mother got the breakfast ready; and by this means he acquired the same
knowledge himself, for Pat was ready to learn, if he had been kept down
all his life with no culture nor teaching.

His board helped them, and their kindness and affection helped him more
than he had ever been aided since his birth, for he came to think he was
of some consequence to somebody, and this makes a wondrous difference to
a person. It made Pat particular in his manners and neat in his dress,
and it brought a peculiar joy to his heart to know that the house was a
gainer by his coming to it. Mr. Bond had got him a situation as porter
in the establishment of one of his mercantile friends, and his employer
thought every thing of the diligent and honest lad, and gave him good
wages, so that he had a trifle to lay up, besides providing his board
and clothing, and getting an occasional present for Mrs. Bates or
Nannie. It was altogether a very thrifty household now, and Mr. Bond
felt no uneasiness about going awhile to leave them.

He had had a lingering cough ever since his illness, and the doctor
ordered change of air and a warmer climate, and so he must go. It was
very hard to leave his snug room, and to turn away from the silent face
that was ever looking upon him, and it cost him many a serious pang to
give up the care of his favorite puss to the tender mercies of Mrs.
Kinalden; but it would be wrong to tamper with his health, and he must
crush all regrets and disinclinations, and perhaps he might return
sooner than even his physician had hoped. He waited but one
moment--after the carriage came to bear him to the boat bound for
Cuba--to take his farewell of the objects of his deepest regard, and
then went more gravely down stairs than was his wont.

Mrs. Kinalden felt a sort of sorrow as she closed the blinds of his
room, making all dark, and then turned the key in the lock, while puss
preceded her to her own sitting-room, and she bestowed sundry endearing
epithets upon the animal, even patting her back in a friendly sort of
way as she stooped to smooth the rug for her to lie upon. It was
something to miss the step that for years had been heard in the house,
and to see the place that he had so longed filled at table occupied by
another.

Mrs. Kinalden had a heart after all, so you would have thought had you
seen how often the silk handkerchief was applied to her eyes in the
course of that day.

CHAPTER XX.

Christmas came and went, and there were merry times in the parish
school, and in Nannie's home, too. Her stocking was filled to
overflowing by her mother and Pat, and there was a nice present from her
kind teacher, too; but they did not have the tree until Epiphany, for
that the minister said "was the Gentile Christmas, and he thought the
good things and presents upon the tree would help the children to
remember the great and glorious gifts that the Saviour's birth and
manifestation brought to them all."

The little things could scarcely sit still during service in the church,
but kept turning and twisting upon their seats and looking toward the
chapel where the tree was. At last the moment came when they were to
walk in procession around it, so as to have a good view of its beauty
and promise before the articles were distributed.

The minister headed the procession with the parish children, and Nannie
felt her importance materially increased as he took her hand and moved
down the aisle. She had never seen any thing so pretty as the brilliant
scene that had met her gaze when the doors were thrown open, and the
illuminated star and bush appeared to her delighted gaze. "Oh!" thought
she, "the parish school's the school for me;" and she gave little Sammy
Flin, who had come in out of curiosity, an exultant glance as she passed
the pew where he was perched up to get sight of what was going on about
him. "She didn't believe they had such times any where else, or that the
minister led them along before so many people, just as if they were his
own children." She could not see how he yearned for them in his heart,
feeling a greater anxiety and care for them, than he did for his own
offspring that had never been so much exposed to the temptations and
snares of the world. All she felt about it was that she was a poor
little child, weak and ignorant, and that he was a priest of the great
God, and taught the people from the blessed Book, and that it was a
great honor for her to stand by his side when so many other children
would covet the place. When Nannie Bates' name was called he handed her
her presents--a nice pair of warm mittens, and a new hood, and a book,
besides a turkey for her mother; and he spoke to her of the little dead
Winnie whose body he had committed to the earth, and told her to be
gentle and good that she might some time go to her; and Nannie went home
happier than ever, and filled up the evening pleasantly with the glowing
description of the day's pleasure. Pat sat with his ears distended, and
his arms upon the table, leaning over toward her as she talked, and Mrs.
Bates almost forgot the light that had so lately been extinguished in
her dwelling as the bright face before her shone out in the pleasant
room.

It needed only one more interested one to complete the little circle,
but he was bounding over the waves, and no desire could recall him until
the appointed time. He had now been gone one week, and they could not
hope to see him until the opening of the summer, so they contented
themselves with the enumeration of his goodness to them all, and with a
fervent prayer for his safe return. The moon gleamed upon the bay as
Mrs. Bates and Nannie looked from their windows upon the sparkling
waves, and they almost fancied they could descry afar off the beaming
face of their kind friend; but he lay heart-sick and home-sick in the
berth of the tossing ship, thinking of his cosey room, and of the attic
where so many pleasant moments had been spent, and wondering if Nannie
and Pat would come to no harm while he was away.

CHAPTER XXI.

The winter was well-nigh gone, and it had brought but little trouble to
Mrs. Bates and her small family until now; just as the new quarter
commenced she was short of funds. Pat was confined to the house with
rheumatism, and his wages had stopped, and of course that stopped the
board-money, for what he had saved went for the doctor and the
medicines, and so Nannie had to leave school and take to the basket
again. It was a pity, for she was making such rapid progress in her
studies, and would soon be promoted, but there was no help for it, the
pantry was quite empty of stores, and it could not be replenished
without means. Mrs. Flin was urgent for the rent, too, and threatened to
let the rooms to more prompt tenants. She forgot that she had never been
put off before, and that good Mr. Bond would be sure to make up all
arrearages on his return from his voyage.

It was not that she needed the money at all, for there was plenty of
silver in her coffers, but she loved to look at the shining bits; and it
did not matter to her if they did cheat some hungry one out of the
necessary morsel. Her ambition was to be equal with the Airlys in point
of establishment, therefore she toiled on to lay up the glittering
heap, and every little while she sat down by it to build up imaginary
fabrics of splendor and show. There was a house to let near her friends,
with the same external marks of gentility, and she was negotiating for
it, and it was to be furnished as nearly like her neighbor's as
possible, and she and Sammy were to emerge from the lowly obscurity that
had so long shrouded them, into the magnificence and grandeur of the
next street. It was for this important step that Mrs. Bates was to be
turned out into the chilly air, with the sick boy and the fatherless
girl. The poor woman would not have stooped to entreat for permission to
remain one moment were it not for the danger consequent on removing Pat
in his present situation; but her pleadings availed nothing with Mrs.
Flin any way, and so they went out, with the weak and suffering boy
hobbling between them, and had their things put in a basement-room,
which they called home again. It was not well for Pat down there in the
cold and wet; and they missed the bright sun, and the pure air, and the
cheering prospect, and altogether, what with the physical troubles
incident to their depression of spirits, and the struggle they had for
bread, they were getting on very ill, when a letter reached them from
Mr. Bond.

     "I'm coming on finely, my child," he said--it was to
     Nannie--"and look quite like Peter Bond again. The sea-voyage
     made me hearty, and a good appetite, freely indulged, plumped
     me up to my usual size, so that you would scarcely believe me
     the same man who left you two months ago, with the skeleton
     limbs losing themselves in the folds of my wide garments. Every
     thing is so new and strange to me, too, that I have plenty of
     amusement in watching my neighbors; and I often forget that I
     am as great a lion to them, until I meet their inquisitive
     gaze.

     "I should like for you to be here for a little while to get
     some of the delicious fruits that are so common and abundant,
     and to see the negroes working among the sugar-cane and
     tobacco. I can not tell you all I would like to in a letter,
     but we shall have very nice times when I get back again,
     talking about what I have seen and heard. I send you a few
     leaves of plants which I picked while walking in the garden of
     the Bishop's palace. They are unlike any you have at home, and
     I know your fancy for such things. I want very much to hear how
     you are getting along; if you are as attentive as ever to your
     lessons and school, and if Pat is doing well in the store, and
     if the attic looks just as it used to? and Nannie, you must go
     to Mrs. Kinalden's before you write and see puss for me; and
     don't suffer for any thing, d'ye hear? I send your mother a
     little money to help her along while I am away, for fear the
     work has failed. Shall come in June, if permitted.

                        "Your friend,

                            "PETER BOND."

The letter brought much joy, as well as the money that could reinstate
them in their old quarters again; but the times were still pinching,
and poor Nannie almost sunk down in the pitiless streets sometimes from