y
girl of about two years old, who, looking up at Mr. Boyd, said,
"Dad-da!"

There was no sign of ill-usage about the child. She was neatly
dressed, and round her waist a purse was tied. Mr. Boyd fitted his
large black-rimmed spectacles on his nose, and while Susan sat with the
child on her knee, warming her pink toes in the ruddy blaze, he untied
the ribbon with which the purse was fastened to the child's waist, and
opened it.

It was an ordinary purse, with pockets, and within the centre one,
fastened by a little spring, was one sovereign and a bit of paper, on
which was written:

"It is the last money I have in the world Take care of the bearer till
you hear more. Keep her for me."

Eight years had gone by since that Christmas night, and nothing more
had ever been heard about this "Christmas-box;" but Uncle Bobo never
repented that he had kept the child. She had been the interest and
delight of his old age, and he had fondly called her "My little Joy."

The neighbours wondered a little, and some looked severely on this deed
of kindness of Mr. Boyd's.

The person who looked most severely at it was Miss Amelia Pinckney, who
kept a small haberdasher's and milliner's shop opposite Mr. Boyd's.
Now neighbours in the Yarmouth rows, especially opposite neighbours,
are very near neighbours indeed; and if it was almost possible to shake
hands over the heads of the passers-by from the upper windows, it was
quite possible to hear what was said, especially in summer, when the
narrow casements were thrown open to admit what air was stirring.

Thus Miss Pinckney's voice, which was neither soft nor low, reached
many ears in the near vicinity, and Mr. Boyd was well aware that she
had called him "a foolish old fellow," adding that "the workhouse was
the place for the child, and that she had no patience with his folly."

Truth to tell, Miss Pinckney had but little patience with any one. She
had, as she conceived, done a noble deed by allowing her stepsister and
her boy to take up their abode with her. But for this deed she took
out very heavy interest; and poor Mrs. Harrison, who was, as her sister
continually reminded her, "worse than a widow"--a deserted wife--had to
pay dearly for the kindness which had been done her. Many a time she
had determined to leave the uncongenial roof, and go forth to face the
world alone; but then she was penniless, and although she worked, and
worked hard too, to keep herself and her boy