l, Archer when you get home, you wash your face, do! It's so dirty!"

The boy flushed hotly. If one of his companions had said that to him, he
would have knocked him down instantly. But he forgave everything this
little girl said, because she was so beautiful and so kind.

"I am a street-sweeper, miss."

"Oh, that accounts for it, then. It's very muddy to-day, and you must be
tired. Hark! there's Florine calling me. Good-by, Archer."

She vanished, and a moment later the boy saw her disappear within the
glittering carriage, which, loaded down with fragrant blossoms, was
driven slowly away. He stood a little while looking after it, then,
pulling his cap down over his eyes, and grasping the stems of her flowers
tightly in his little purple hand, he started for home.

Home! It could hardly be called so, and yet it was home to Archer. His
mother was there--the dear mother who was all the world to him. It was in
a poor part of the city--an old, tumble-down wooden house, swarming with
tenants, teeming with misery, filth, and crime.

Up a crazy flight of steps, and turning to the right, Arch saw that the
door of his mother's room was half-way open, and the storm had beaten in
on the floor. It was all damp and dismal, and such an indescribable air
of desolation over anything! Archer's heart beat a little slower as he
went in. His mother sat in an arm-chair by the window, an uncovered box
in her lap, and a miniature locket clasped in her hand.

"Oh, mother! mother dearest!" cried Arch, holding up the flowers, "only
see what I have got! An angel gave them to me! A very angel, with hair
like the sunshine, and a blue frock, all real silk! And I have got my
pocket full of pennies, and you shall have an orange, mother, and ever
so many nice things besides. See, mother dear!"

He displayed a handful of coin, but she did not notice him. He looked at
her through the gloom of the twilight, and a feeling of terrible awe
stole over him. He crept to her side, and touched her cheek with his
finger. It was cold as ice. A mortal pallor overspread his face; the
pennies and the flowers rolled unheeded to the floor.

"Dead! dead! My mother is dead!" he cried.

He did not display any of the passionate grief which is natural to
childhood--there were no tears in his feverish eyes. He took her cold
hand in his own, and stood there all night long, smoothing back the
beautiful hair, and talking to her as one would talk to a sick child.

It w