in his life, she
was a little angel, even if she had no wings. He even went so far as
to believe she was a little angel, commissioned by that mysterious
something, which wiser and more devout persons would have called a
special providence, to relieve his wants with the contents of her
basket, and gladden his heart by the sunshine of her sweet smile.
There is something in goodness which always finds its way to the face.
It makes little girls look prettier than silks, and laces, and
ribbons, and embroidery. Julia Bryant was pretty, very pretty. Harry
thought so; but very likely it was the doughnuts and her kind words
which constituted her beauty.

"I am pretty sure I am not a bad boy," continued Harry; "but I will
tell you my own story, and you shall judge for yourself."

"You will tell me all of it--won't you?"

"To be sure I will," replied Harry, a little tartly, for he
misapprehended Julia's meaning.

He thought she was afraid he would not tell his wrong acts; whereas
her deep interest in him rendered her anxious to have the whole, even
to the smallest particulars.

"I shall be so delighted! I do so love to hear a good story!"
exclaimed Julia.

"You shall have it all; but where were you going? It will take me a
good while."

"I was going to carry these doughnuts to Mrs. Lane. She is a poor
widow, who lives over the back lane. She has five children, and has
very hard work to get along. I carry something to her every week."

"Then you are a little angel!" added Harry, who could understand and
appreciate kindness to the poor.

"Not exactly an angel, though Mrs. Lane says I am," replied Julia,
with a blush.

"Aunty Gray, over to the poorhouse, used to call everybody an angel
that brought her anything good. So I am sure you must be one."

"Never mind what I am now. I am dying to hear your story," interposed
Julia, as she seated herself on another rock, near that occupied by
Harry.

"Here goes, then"; and Harry proceeded with his tale, commencing back
beyond his remembrance with the traditionary history which had been
communicated to him by Mr. Nason and the paupers.

When he came to the period of authentic history, or that which was
stored up in his memory, he grew eloquent, and the narrative glowed
with the living fire of the hero. Julia was quite as much interested
as Desdemona in the story of the swarthy Moor. His "round, unvarnished
tale," adorned only with the flowers of youthful simplicity, enchained