t she has eaten more like a hungry pig than a gal," said
Mary, before Madge had time to reply.

Jessie could not keep from laughing at Mary's not very complimentary
comparison. Hence, she turned her head so as not to hurt the little girl's
feelings. As soon as she could make her face straight and sober again, she
sat down beside Madge, and taking her hand, said--

"Would you like to see my doll?"

But Madge had other and higher thoughts than of dolls or playthings. She
was in a sort of wonder-world. She could not satisfy herself with regard
to the meaning of the change brought about in her during the last hour or
two. That pleasant kitchen, the neat dress she wore, the bath by which she
had been cleansed from the filth of poverty, the pleasant faces she had
seen, and the kind voices she had heard, all seemed to her like a gay
dream, and she was expecting, ay, and fearing too, that the next minute
she should awake and find herself sitting and shivering in the cold wind,
under the stone wall, waiting for her ungentle mother. But when Jessie
touched her hand and spoke so kindly to her, every thing seemed real, and
her heart sent up gushes of gratitude to the little friend who, like some
good fairy, had conjured away her rags, and pain, and cold, and hunger.
After gazing silently into Jessie's eyes a few moments, as if she was
trying to look into her soul, she said--

"Little girl, will you let me love you?"

"To be sure I will, and I will love _you_ too," replied Jessie, in tones
that seemed like angel's music to the little outcast, whose ears had long
been unfamiliar with loving words.

Then Jessie threw an arm round Madge and pressing her to her bosom, gave
her a kiss. Oh, how warmly did the outcast girl return it! She clung to
Jessie as the wild vine does to the supporting branch, and embraced her
with an ardor which told more eloquently than words could utter it, how
grateful she was for the love which Jessie had offered her.

When Madge withdrew her arms from Jessie, she sat back in her chair and
gazed at her long and silently. After a time the tears filled her eyes,
and in broken accents she asked--

"Does any one know where my mother is?"

Jessie told her she was probably in the village, and that she would, most
likely, see her in the morning. Madge begged hard to be taken to her that
night, but was finally persuaded to wait until the morrow.

"That child has a great deal of _heart_," said Uncle Morris, af