ad
up and down to get a better light upon it, until the slight cast in her
velvety eyes became very strongly marked indeed. Then she turned away
with a light, reckless, foolish laugh, and ran to the closet where
hung her precious dresses. These she inspected nervously, and missing
suddenly a favorite black silk from its accustomed peg, for a moment,
thought she should have fainted. But discovering it the next instant
lying upon a trunk where she had thrown it, a feeling of thankfulness
to a superior Being who protects the friendless, for the first time
sincerely thrilled her. Then, albeit she was hurried for time, she could
not resist trying the effect of a certain lavender neck-ribbon upon the
dress she was then wearing, before the mirror. And then suddenly she
became aware of a child's voice close beside her, and she stopped. And
then the child's voice repeated, "Is it mamma?"

Mrs. Tretherick faced quickly about. Standing in the doorway was a
little girl of six or seven. Her dress had been originally fine, but was
torn and dirty; and her hair, which was a very violent red, was tumbled
serio-comically about her forehead. For all this, she was a picturesque
little thing, even through whose childish timidity there was a certain
self-sustained air which is apt to come upon children who are left much
to themselves. She was holding under her arm a rag doll, apparently
of her own workmanship, and nearly as large as herself,--a doll with a
cylindrical head, and features roughly indicated with charcoal. A
long shawl, evidently belonging to a grown person, dropped from her
shoulders, and swept the floor.

The spectacle did not excite Mrs. Tretherick's delight. Perhaps she had
but a small sense of humor. Certainly, when the child, still standing in
the doorway, again asked, "Is it mamma?" she answered sharply, "No, it
isn't," and turned a severe look upon the intruder.

The child retreated a step, and then, gaining courage with the distance,
said in deliciously imperfect speech,--

"Dow 'way then! why don't you dow away?"

But Mrs. Tretherick was eying the shawl. Suddenly she whipped it off the
child's shoulders, and said angrily,--

"How dared you take my things, you bad child?"

"Is it yours? Then you are my mamma; ain't you? You are mamma!" she
continued gleefully; and, before Mrs. Tretherick could avoid her, she
had dropped her doll, and, catching the woman's skirts with both hands,
was dancing up and down before he