cream-colored
kid gloves. See--she has beautiful curling hair, and when she puts her
pretty face out the carriage window, and tells the coachman to go here,
and to go there, he minds her just as if she were a grown lady. Why did
God make _her_ rich, and _me_ poor? Why did he let _her_ ride in a
carriage, and _me_ go barefoot? Why did he clothe _her_ like a
butterfly, and _me_ like a caterpillar?

* * *

Matty, come here. Climb into my lap,--lay your head upon my shoulder,--so.
Now listen. You are well and strong, Matty?--yes. You have enough to
eat and drink?--yes. You have a kind father and mother?--yes. You have
a crowing little dimpled baby brother?--yes. You can jump, and leap,
and climb fences, and run up trees like a
squirrel?--yes.

Well; the little girl with the rose-colored bonnet, whom you saw riding
in the carriage, is a poor little cripple. You saw her fine dress and
pretty pale face, but you didn't see her little shrunken foot, dangling
helplessly beneath the silken robe. You saw the white gloved coachman,
and the silver-mounted harness, and the soft, velvet cushions, but you
didn't see the tear in their little owner's soft, dark eyes, as she
spied you at the cottage door, rosy and light-footed, free to ramble
'mid the fields and flowers. You didn't know that her little heart was
aching for somebody to love her. You didn't know that her mamma loved
her diamonds, and silks, and satins better than her own little girl.
You didn't know that when her little crippled limb pained her, and her
heart ached, that she had "no nice place to cry." You didn't know that
through the long, weary day, her mamma never took her gently on her
lap,--or kissed her pale face,--or read her pretty stories, to charm
her pain away,--or told her of that happy home, where none shall say,
I'm sick. You didn't know that she never went to her little bed at
night, to smooth her pillow, or put aside the ringlets from the flushed
cheek, or kneel by the little bed, and ask the dear All Father to heal
and bless her child. You didn't know that she danced till the stars
grew pale, while poor little Mabel tossed restlessly from side to side,
longing for a cool draught for her parched lip.

"You won't be naughty any more?"--that's a darling. And now remember,
my dear little Matty, that money is not happiness;--that fine clothes
and fine carriages are not happiness;--and that even this bright,
beauti