ery ill, and unable to work, and the poor family had
not tasted food that day.

"Poor thing!" exclaimed the little old man when she had concluded her
affecting narrative. He straightaway began fumbling in his pockets, and
it seemed with no very satisfactory result, for he muttered--"The devil!
I have no money--not a copper; bah! I can give you nothing. But hold!
where do you live, my child?"

The girl stated her place of residence, which was in an obscure but
respectable section of the city. The little old man produced a greasy
memorandum book, and a stump of a pencil, with which he noted down the
direction; then, uttering a grunt of satisfaction, but without saying a
single word, he resumed his walk, and was soon lost in the crowd.

Evening came, and with it a furious snow-storm. Madly the wind careered
through the streets--now fiercely dashing the snow into the faces of
such unfortunate travellers as chanced to be abroad in that wild
weather--now shaking the roofs of crazy old houses--and now tearing away
in the distance with a howl of triumph at its power. The storm fiend was
abroad--the elements were at war, and yet in the midst of that furious
tumult, the poor fruit girl was toiling on her way towards her humble
home. She reached it at last. It was a poor and lowly place, the abode
of humble but decent poverty; yet the angel of peace had spread her
wings there, and contentment had sat with them at their frugal board.
True, it was but a garret; yet that little family, with hearts united by
holy love, felt that to them it was a _home_. And then its little window
commanded a distant view of a shining river, and green, pleasant fields
beyond; and all day long, in fine weather, the cheerful sunshine looked
in upon them, casting a gleam of gladness upon their hearts. It had been
a happy home to the blind basket-maker and his grandchildren; but alas!
sickness had laid its heavy hand upon the aged man, and want and
wretchedness had become their portion.

The girl entered with a sad heart, for she brought no relief to the
hungering and sorrowing inmates of that lowly dwelling. Without saying a
word she seated herself at the bed-side of her grandfather, and taking
his hand in hers, bedewed it with her tears. The old man turned towards
her, and said--

"Thou art weeping, Fanny--what distresses thee? Tears are for the aged
and the sorrowing--not for the young. Thou hast not brought us
food?--well, well; the will of Heaven