hed the
quiet suburban cemetery, the clouds had somewhat dispersed, though the
late flowers which yet remained to gladden the earth drooped with the
heavy moisture; and when the last words were spoken, and all that
remained of Crippled Jimmy had been laid in his narrow bed, the four
kindly mourners turned tearfully from the spot, leaving him alone in his
poor humble grave.

At that moment a robin perched himself on a bush close by, and warbled
forth such a hymn, so full of gladness, it seemed as though the bird
sang the echo of those joyful words--

"I am the Resurrection and the Life."

* * * * *

And so they left little Jimmy. Nothing could harm him now. Twas but his
frail mortality they mourned; his blest spirit, freed from earthly
stains, was now with his Saviour and God.

* * * * *

On their return home they found that Mrs. Flanagan had prepared a
comfortable tea for them all in Mrs. Turner's room; and it looked so
cosy and home-like, humble though it was, with Mrs. Flanagan's kindly
face to greet them.

Poor Mrs. Flanagan--she was greatly changed; no longer the same cheerful
person, but calm and subdued, as if she dwelt beneath some dark shadow
that clouded her existence.

She did not now, when her day's work was ended, come into Mrs. Turner's
room to have a friendly chat, or interest herself in Pollie's
fortune-making, as she used to do. It is true, she still brought the
flowers for the child, but her whole mind seemed too absorbed to dwell
on these trivial matters which formerly possessed such an interest for
her. Her entire thoughts were centred on Nora.

No one, save good Mrs. Turner, had seen the poor girl since the evening
Pollie had brought the lost one home. The poor mother hid, as it were,
her recovered treasure, fearful that even the mere passing glance of
scorn should for a moment rest on her blighted child. So up in that
little room, away from prying eyes, lived the mother and daughter. Nora
was not idle. Not for worlds would she have rested dependent on that
dear forgiving mother's hard earnings for her daily food; therefore,
whilst Mrs. Flanagan toiled in Covent Garden Market, her daughter's
slender fingers diligently laboured at bookbinding, the trade she had
pursued years ago, in the time when her heart was innocent and happy.

On the evening of which we write, when Sally Grimes and Lizzie Stevens
had gone to their own homes