No, go away, we do'nt want any matches," said the mistress; but the woman still stood before the window with a forbidding, not to say menacing aspect. "The woman's boots and clothes are very good," said Sally, the maid; "but it's pitiful to see the poor child's bare feet and rags; she looks hungry too."

"Well, Sally, you may give her something to eat then," said the mistress.

Sally rose with alacrity, and rubbing the flour from her arms, ran hastily to a little pantry, from which she presently returned with a piece of cold pudding. She opened the casement, and held it out to the child, who took it with evident delight and began to eat it at once. Then the dripping pair moved away, and the mistress and maid thought no more of them, but went on with their occupation, while the short day began to close in the sooner for the driving clouds and pouring rain, and the windows in the little stone house began to glow with the cheerful light of the fires.

In the pauses of the wind and rain, Sally once thought she heard a light foot-fall, but she did not see any one in the garden, though if any one did come in then, and wander round the laurestinus bushes, and sit down in the little porch, that person must have seen all that went on that rainy night in the cheerful little parlour and kitchen; must have seen the whitewashed walls of the kitchen glowing with a more and more ruddy reflection from the flames; must have seen the little door open in the face of the cuckoo clock, and the cuckoo start briskly out, and sing, and dart in again; and must have seen Sally bustling about, cutting bread and butter, setting out tea-things, and putting on her clean apron; then the person, by simply turning, could have seen the mistress in her afternoon gown and cap, sitting in her pretty parlour, the walls all covered with roses, and the carpet gay with bright flowers.

It grew quite dark. Sally sat making a round of toast at the fire, and just as she turned the toast upon the

fork, a little child stole as silently as a shadow from the porch, and pressed her cheek against the glass, and wondered whether there was any more of that nice cold pudding in the cupboard, and looked at the lazy cat as she came and rubbed herself against Sally's gown. But presently the wind came round again, and dashed the rosebud so hard against the casement, that she was frightened; it seemed as if they rapped on purpose to let people know she was there; and she crept back to the porch, and once more cowered down in its most sheltered corner.

She was very wet, but she did not mind that so much as might have been expected; she did not mind being out in the dark either, for she was well ac customed to it, but she was very tired, they had walked so far that day; and every minute she looked out into the garden and listened, and wondered why her mammy did not come, for she was alone. After they had left that house in the afternoon, they had walked far out on to the great heath, and had sat down, and then her mammy had said to her,—“ Now, child, you may go back, do you hear ?" and she had risen and said, "Yes, mammy; where am I to go back to." "It do'nt much signify," ," her mammy had answered; "you may go back to that little house where they gave us the pudding, and I shall be sure to come soon, I'm a coming directly." "And shall you be sure to find me, mammy ?" she had asked; and then her mammy was angry, and said, "Set off directly, when I bid you; I shall find you fast enough when I want you."

So she had set off as fast as she could; but it was a long way, and a long while before she reached the porch, and then she was so tired she thought she should have cried if there had not been a little bench to sit down on.

She called this woman her mammy, but she had a real mother a long way off, of whom this one had hired

her; because when they went out begging, her little appealing face made people charitable. What wonder, since the real mother could so give her up, that the pretended one should desert her if she no longer needed her.

But she did not know her desolate condition. She only thought what a long, long time her mammy was in coming, and she crept out of the porch again, to see the mistress sitting at work, and stooping now and then to pat a dog that lay basking on the rug at her feet. What a soft rug it was! The beggar child wished she was a pet dog, that she might lie there in the light and warmth; but once more the wind swung a branch or rosebud against the glass, and she withdrew to her comfortless shelter, longing for the time when her mammy was to fetch her.

And then two more dreary hours passed over her head; sometimes she cried a little, and sometimes she dozed, and woke up chilled and trembling; sometimes she took courage, and wandered about among the laurestinus bushes, so fearful was she lest her mammy should miss her; then she went back again and cried, and was so tired, she did not know what she should do if she had to wait much longer; at last her little head sunk quietly down upon her knees, and the wind and the rain and the darkness were forgotten.

She was sound asleep; but after a long time she dreamt that some one shook her and spoke to her, but she could not open her eyes, and then that little dog began to bark at her, and she was so frightened that she cried bitterly in her sleep. Some one (not her mammy) was lifting her up and carrying her away, and giving her something so hot and so nice to drink, that she was amazed, and could open her eyes and sit up; there was the cuckoo clock, and the little dog, he really was barking at her; but the warm fire was shining on her, and Sally the maid was pulling off her wet clothes, and telling her not to be frightened and she should have some supper.

Poor little outcast! they dried her trembling limbs and wrapped her in a blanket; but she was so faint and sleepy that she could hardly hold up her head, even while they gave her some supper, but presently fell asleep on Sally's knee over the comfortable fire.

"Well, Sally," said the mistress, "I can only say that this is the strangest thing I ever heard talk on." "And so it is, ma'am ; please what am I to do now with the little dear?" said Sally, simpering.

"I suppose we must keep her for the night; make up a little bed on three chairs; and I must go up stairs and look out some clothes for her out of the bundle I made up to give away at Christmas."

So the mistress went up stairs; and then Sally made the little bed, and prepared a warm bath to refresh the aching limbs of the poor little wanderer; and then she combed her pretty hair, and carried her, already asleep, to the little bed on three chairs.

The next morning, when the mistress came down into the kitchen, she saw her baby-guest sitting on a low wooden stool, nursing the cat, and patting it with her little open hand; her dark hair was neatly brushed, and her face was as clean as Sally's care could make it; her eyes watched with inquisitive interest the various preparations for a comfortable breakfast. Her features expressed a kind of innocent shrewdness; but she was evidently in great awe both of mistress and maid, though when unobserved, she was never tired of admiring her new checked pinafore, and smoothing out her spotted print frock with her hands.

"Shall I give her some bread and milk, ma'am ?" asked Sally.

"Certainly," said the mistress, "and after breakfast I shall consider what is to be done with her."

So the little thing had a good breakfast; and all the morning the mistress sat considering; but at dinnertime it appeared that she had not considered to much purpose, for when Sally came into the parlour to lay

the cloth, and asked,-"Am I to give the little dear some dinner, ma'am?"-she answered again," Certainly, Sally, and I must consider what is to be done; I've not been able to make up my mind. How has she behaved?"

"Been as good as gold," answered Sally, with a somewhat silly smile; "she saw me dusting about, and I gev her a duster, and she dusted too, and then stood on the stool and see me making the pie, and never touched a thing. Oh, she's a toward little thing."

After dinner it began to rain, and then the wind got up, and the rosebuds rattled and knocked again at the casement. A little before tea-time the mistress felt so lonely that she came into the kitchen for company, and there she saw Sally sitting before the fire, making toast, and the child on a chair beside her, with a small piece of bread on a fork.

"She's toasting herself a bit of bread for her tea," said Sally, "leastways, if you mean to give her her tea, ma'am."

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"Dear

Certainly," said the mistress, once more. me, how cheerful it looks, does'nt it, Sally;-a child seems always to make a place cheerful. Yes, I shall give her her tea, if she is good."

If to be quiet is to be good, never was a better child; and certainly never was a happier one.

“Have you considered anything yet, ma'am ?" asked Sally.

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Why no, I can't, Sally, just yet; it's so wet, she must sleep here to-night," replied the mistress. "I'll think of it to-morrow.'

But to-morrow the mistress still said, I'll think of it to-morrow; and so it came to pass that at the end of a month the child was still there. She had grown plump and rosy, though still extremely shy and quiet, which was in her favour; for mistress and maid finding so little trouble, and such a constant source of amusement and occupation, had gradually dropped all con