n one of the hard benches, when old Treffy's barrel-organ
began to play. He had not listened to it much at first, but when the
first notes of "Home, sweet Home," had been sounded forth, little
Christie had raised his head on his elbow, and listened with all his
might. It was almost too much for him; it was a memory of the past. A
few months ago, little Christie had a mother, and this was the last tune
she sang. It brought it all back to him; the bare, desolate room, the
wasted form on the bed, the dear, loving hand which had stroked his face
so gently, and the sweet voice had sung that very tune to him. He could
hear her, even now: "Home, sweet home, there's no place like home;
there's no place like home." How sweetly she had sung it!--he remembered
it so well. And he remembered what she had said to him just
afterwards,--

"I'm going home, Christie--going home--home, sweet home; I'm going home,
Christie."

And those were the last words she had said to him.

Since then, life had been very dreary to little Christopher. Life
without a mother, it hardly _was_ life to him. He had never been happy
since she had died. He had worked very hard, poor little fellow, to earn
his bread, for she had told him to do that. But he had often wished he
could go to his mother in "Home, sweet Home." And he wished it more than
ever this night, as he heard his mother's tune. He waited for it very
patiently, whilst old Treffy was playing the other three which came
first, but at length some one closed the door, and the noise inside the
lodging-room was so great that he could not distinguish the notes of the
longed-for tune.

So Christie crept out quietly in the darkness, and closing the door
softly, that no one might notice it, he stole gently upstairs. He knelt
down by the door and listened. It was very cold, and the wind swept up
the staircase, and made little Christie shiver. Yet still he knelt by
the door.

At length the organ stopped; he heard the old man putting it down by the
wall, and in a few minutes all was still.

Then Christie crept downstairs again, and lay down once more on his hard
bench, and he fell asleep, and dreamt of the mother in the far-off land.
And he thought he heard her singing, "'Home, sweet Home,' I'm home now,
Christie; I'm home now, and there's no place like home."

CHAPTER II.

CHRISTIE'S IMPORTANT CHARGE.

The dismal lodging-house had a charm for little Christie now. Night
after night he return