abel, shyly looking up into
Christie's face.

"All right, missie; come here," said Christie.

And standing on tip-toe at his side, little Mabel took hold of the
handle of the organ with her tiny white hand. Very slowly and carefully
she turned it, so slowly that her mamma came to the window to see if the
organ-boy had been taken ill.

It was a pretty sight which that young mother looked upon. The little
fair, delicate child, in her light summer dress, turning the handle of
the old, faded barrel-organ, and the organ-boy standing by, watching her
with admiring eyes. Then little Mabel looked up, and saw her mother's
face at the window, and smiled and nodded to her, delighted to find that
she was watching. And then Mabel went on playing with a happy
consciousness that mother was listening. For there was no one in the
world that little Mabel loved so much as her mother.

But Mabel turned so slowly that she grew tired of the melancholy wails
of "Poor Mary Ann."

"Change it, please, organ-boy," she said; "make it play 'Home, sweet
Home;' mother _does_ like that so."

But Christie knew that "Rule Britannia" lay between them and "Home,
sweet Home;" he took the handle from Mabel, and saying, brightly, "All
right, missie, I'll make it come as quick as I can," he turned it round
so fast, that if old Treffy had been within hearing, he would certainly
have died from fright about his dear old organ long before the month was
over. Several people in the opposite houses came to their windows to
look out; they thought the organ must be possessed with some evil
spirit, so slowly did it go one minute, so quickly the next.

But they understood how it was a minute afterwards when little Mabel
again began to turn, and very slowly and deliberately the first notes of
"Home, sweet Home," was sounded forth. She turned the handle of the
organ until "Home, sweet Home," was quite finished, and then, with a
sigh of satisfaction, she gave it up to Christie.

"I like 'Home, sweet Home,'" she said; "it's such a pretty tune."

"Yes," said Christie, "it's my favorite, missie. Where is 'Home, sweet
Home'?" he asked suddenly, as he remembered his promise to old Treffy.

"That's _my_ home," said little Mabel, nodding her head in the direction
of the pretty house. "I don't know where yours is, Christie."

"I haven't much of a place to call home, missie," said Christie; "me and
old Treffy, we live together in an old attic, and that won't be for
lon