ho had
seen her mother grow thin and die, began to be terrified, lest the aunt
too would be taken.

So, she went up to her gently, and kissed her brow, and the poor aunt
opened her eyes and smiled mournfully; and when she heard how little
money the tambourine had brought that day, she tried to conceal her
sorrow lest the little child should be grieved.

Then Cybele lighted a small fire in their bit of a fireplace, and made a
little tea for her aunt. It was the very last she had; but when she
thought how much her aunt needed it, and how she would need still more
on the morrow, hope whispered, quite cheerfully, that with the
tambourine she would win from people's pockets many a bright cent. With
these thoughts, she looked very lovingly towards the tambourine, which
lay quietly upon the floor in the corner, its gay bells silent, as if
it, too, felt sorrow for the aunt's sickness.

After Cybele had toasted a bit of bread, and given it, with the tea, to
the aunt--had received the kind kiss, and saw her close her eyes--she
thought she slept, and new courage filled her heart; she began to think
of the pleasant people she should see to-morrow. What a kind crowd she
drew about her! They looked on her with loving eyes, and the sweet
smiles played about their lips. There were the groups of pretty
children, in gay frocks and rosy cheeks, which should gather about the
parlor-window, when she should stop before it and strike the tambourine
with her hand; and they would smile upon her, and then the elder sister,
who should be so mild and gentle, would come and throw up the sash, and
speak with her; and, perhaps, even she would throw down to her a sprig
of the geranium which stood near by on the flower-stand. Then she was
lured further on, to think of a great fortune which was to be obtained,
that she might go back to the laughing skies of Italy, and spend her
days in the lovely garden where her mother slept.

But when Cybele arose in the morning, and told her aunt how she was
going out to gather in the pennies, the poor aunt sighed, and bade her
stay at home a while, for she could not bear to be alone.

So Cybele sat down upon the floor, and, taking the tambourine, sang and
played the softest and sweetest airs she could remember; and, as she
played, it seemed as though new tones, and words even, were given to
speak out of it.

She astonished herself, and a kind of sorrowful ecstasy came into her
soul. She played on, and on, and