brightness to her child.

"I am not changed in heart to you, dear mother," she continued, "but
when I sit and think, my sad thoughts fly back over the dreary desert of
the past; and I know what I am, and what I might have been."

All trembling with emotion, the poor old woman held out her arms to
clasp her penitent child; then laying her head upon her bosom, she
smoothed the beautiful hair caressingly, as in the days when as an
infant she nestled there.

"Yes, yes, dear mother," pursued the poor girl; "let me lay my weary
head where I can hear the beating of your heart, whose every throb, I
know, is full of love for me. I will pray to forget the sad, sad past,
and be to you once more your Nora of the long ago. We were so happy
then!"

"Yes, we were happy in those days," murmured the mother, to herself as
it were; "though often hungry, and often cold; but the wide world was
our garden, and we had to pluck what flowers we could from it. You, my
poor child, passed by the blossoms, and gathered only weeds; but take
heart, my darling, there are yet some bonnie buds to cull, and life
after all will not be quite a barren wilderness to you and your poor old
mother."

Then Mrs. Flanagan fairly broke down. But the icy barrier which had
divided the mother and daughter was fallen, and they now knew what they
were--all in all--to each other once again.

CHAPTER XI.

CHRISTMAS EVE.

Christmas Eve! What memories revive at those two almost hallowed words!

We think upon the _first_ Christmas Eve,--of the manger at Bethlehem,
the Redeemer's humble cradle-bed; the star, guiding His first
worshippers to His poor abode,--and we recall in imagination that
glorious anthem sung by the heavenly host to those simple awe-struck
shepherds whilst guarding their flocks by night! Yes; those words,
"Christmas Eve," carry our thoughts, for a time at least, far from the
cares of this transient world; and strangely cold must be the heart that
does not echo the glad tidings, "On earth, peace, goodwill toward men."

But on the Christmas Eve of which we speak the holy stars were shining
above a far different scene than those peaceful plains of Bethlehem--on
London, that wilderness to the poor and sad, that golden city for the
rich and gay, and in a district of which (Drury Lane) little star-light
could be discerned through the murky air of its crowded streets.

Drury Lane was now at the height of its business: flaring gas-jets
flamed