MRS. HENSON sat with her three children at their frugal supper. The house was neat, but very plain, and the dress of the children showed that they were only a trifle above actual want.

James, a boy of ten, sold newspapers and earned a little. Helen, between eight and nine, could help about the house when her mother was absent cleaning or washing, and Mary, seven, was the baby of the household, and the one for whom all the others sacrificed.

“Did you earn much this week, James?” said the mother, who had been a widow for several years. “You know I have been sick, and we can’t meet the rent this month, and we didn’t last month. I don’t know what we shall do,” said Mrs. Henson, in a tone of confidence with James, although she did not expect that her three small children could help her solve the problem. She knew that work alone would solve it, and this she was not always able to obtain, and had been too ill to labor even if the work were before her.

“I tried hard,” said the brown-eyed, slender boy, “but I didn’t sell as many papers as I do sometimes. I ran just as fast, but somehow I didn’t get so many customers, and there weren’t so many extras. You know a lady once in a while slips a nickel into your hand for a paper and won’t wait for change, and that helps a fellow along. But I didn’t have much of that last week. I didn’t spend anything for myself, either.”

“No, you wouldn’t do that. We all save for each other since father died. We shall get over these hard places when you are a little older.”

“Couldn’t you borrow of the lady on the hill who gave me the shoes?” said Helen. “She seems very nice, and she is rich.”

“She has been good to us,” said the mother, “but I hate to bother her. One can wear out generous people by too constant asking for aid.”

“I’ll tell you what to do, mamma,” said little Mary; “we’ll sell the black and tan to the big gentleman who always speaks to me so kind.”

“Oh, no!” said all the other voices together. “Blackie was given to you, and you have played with her, and we couldn’t spare her. She eats very little, and you love her very much. She is the life of the house, she is so frolicsome.”

“But he would pay money for her, and I could spare her if I had to. You said, mamma, we might be turned out of the house, and then what would Blackie do for a home? I think she would be happy in a big house, and we would give the man the basket she sleeps in, so she would be contented and remember us, too.”

“Well, who would take her to the gentleman?” said Mrs. Henson. “I fear he would think it foolish.”

“I will take her,” said the child.

In the afternoon Mary wended her way to the mansion, with Blackie and the basket, and asked for the Hon. Mr. Colebrook. That gentleman rarely had time to see adults, but he would not refuse a child.

When he entered the room he found little Mary Henson with her basket and her dog, her eyes very red with weeping, and the dog whining as though she had heard the whole plan of separation from those she loved in the poor home.

“I’ve brought you my Blackie, sir, to sell her to you. Mamma needs money for rent, and as you are rich I thought you would like to buy her. She will love you very much, and kiss your face. She always sleeps with me, and perhaps she would sleep with you.”

“And can you spare her?” said the millionaire. “I fear she would cry for her former home. It seems to me that you have been crying.”

“Oh, yes, I did cry some when I kissed her the last time, and mamma and Helen and James all cried, because, you see, Mr. Colebrook, she is all we have to love!”

“Well, what do you ask for her?”

“I don’t know. Mamma owes ten dollars for rent for the two months. I think, maybe, if you would pay that for her you could pay half now, and the landlady might wait for the other half, because she would know you would surely pay. I thought of selling Blackie to her, but Blackie needs a very nice home. Mme. Wainwright gave her to me, so you see Blackie comes from a good family, sir, and puts up with our poor home because we all love her so.”

“Well, I will take her,” said Mr. Colebrook, “and if she cries I will send for you to comfort her.”

All this time Blackie was laying her head close to the child, as much as to say: “We will not be separated.” When the millionaire attempted to take her she growled, and then looked plaintively toward her little mistress.

“He’ll be very good to you, Blackie,” said the child, who could not stop her tears. She wanted to sell the dog, and yet if she could only have the money and Blackie too! But that was impossible.

“I have no little girl to pet the dog,” said the great man, “and I fear she will be lonely. You must come and see her,” and he put the ten dollars into the child’s hand, bade her good afternoon, and closed the door on a very sad little heart. Blackie crouched down in her basket as though the fine house were of no importance, and whined piteously for the little girl who had left her.

Mary sobbed all the way home, but she clasped the ten dollars tightly, and was thankful that they could all have a house over their heads for a little longer.

“I’ve brought the ten dollars, mamma,” said the child, and she laid it in her mother’s lap and stole away to weep alone over her sorrow.

Mrs. Henson was very sad over the matter. If she could earn but ten extra dollars! But she could not. The dog was probably not worth over a quarter of that sum, and the rich man had bought her just to help the family. Well, Blackie would have a home of luxury, and that was a comfort.

Hon. Mr. Colebrook had become interested in the child, and called at the little home a few days later to see how the widow and her family were prepared to meet the coming cold weather.

He asked for Mary. She was not well, the mother said, and had no appetite. “I suppose she misses Blackie,” said Mrs. Henson, “though she never speaks of her.”

“And the dog misses her, too, for she will neither eat nor play,” said Mr. Colebrook. “I hope she will be better soon, for she is a winsome little creature. We are already fond of her.”

“We are glad to have her in so good a home,” said Mrs. Henson.

“How do matters look for the winter?” said the man of means. “Is the rent provided for, and the coal in the cellar?”

“I think we can get along now, since you kindly paid the rent for two months. I am in better health, and James seems to be selling more papers.”

When Mr. Colebrook had gone Mary stole out to ask about Blackie. She could not go to see the dog,—that would give pain to two,—but she was eager to hear about her mute little playmate.

“Mr. Colebrook says Blackie will not eat much and misses you greatly,” said Mrs. Henson. A smile crept over the child’s face as she said: “I thought Blackie really loved me. I would go to see her if she wouldn’t feel bad when I came away, and I mustn’t make her heart ache.”

“Oh, I think she’ll forget about us all soon, and enjoy her new home very much!” said Helen.

“I think not,” said Mary. “Blackie never forgets. She never did.”

It was late in the autumn, and Mrs. Henson was too busy with work to think much more about a dog. James was up early and home late, and Helen’s little hands were more than filled with work too hard for a child.

Christmas was near at hand, and the rich and the poor were planning according to their means for a merry time. Mrs. Henson’s presents must necessarily be small, and along the line of the absolutely necessary. James must have boots, Helen a simple dress, and Mary some mittens, with a bag of parched corn, a little candy, and a few nuts.

Mr. Colebrook did not forget the widow’s family. He sent coal, a barrel of flour, some money for rent, and some articles of clothing for the children. There was one quite large package for Mary. What was in it nobody could imagine, though Mrs. Henson was in the secret. Finally a low whining was heard; the box was hastily opened, and out sprang Blackie into Mary’s lap, and kissed her over and over again. The child cried, and Blackie nestled her face against Mary’s neck and cried also. She was home again as a Christmas present, and she liked the plain home better than the grand one.

“Did you really want to come back, Blackie,” said Mary, “and sleep with me again, and not be rich and great any more?” and Blackie wagged her tail and whined approvingly, as though it were the happiest Christmas of her life.