I got up and hung a shawl over the canary's cage to keep him quiet. He had been singing all day, till it seemed to me I could not bear it any longer. That morning the doctor had told me that my mother would never be any better. She was liable, he said, to die at any time. At the longest, it was only a question of days or weeks. And my mother was all I had in the world.

My father had been dead a year. In his lifetime we had lived in a pleasant country home. He had been employed in the county bank, and we had lived most comfortably, and even with some pretensions to elegance. I had been sent to school, and learned a little French, a little music, and something of art. I had, too, a great deal of skill in fancy work, and had been used to find in that and my painting my amusements. Indeed, we all had what are called elegant tastes,—tastes which suited a much larger income than ours, and we indulged them. This was unwise, perhaps. People said so, at any rate, when my father died suddenly, and left us with no property and no dependence save our home.

It was to escape alike their censure and their pity, as much as because I fancied I could find more openings for employment, that I persuaded mother to join me in selling our little place, and remove to New York. She was willing enough to do this. I think that it was a relief to her to go away from all the familiar sights and sounds which kept so constantly before her the memory of the dead husband who had made her life among them so blessed. She fancied, perhaps, that when she was among unfamiliar things the first bitterness of her grief would wear away. But with her, as it proved, change of place was only change of pain. She was not made of the stuff to which forgetfulness is possible.

Our home and furniture brought us a little over three thousand dollars, and with this sum we went to New York. In spite of my mourning for my father I had the elasticity of youth, and I did not make this removal, enter into this wide, strange, new life, without my share of the high hopes and brilliant anticipations of youth.

We went first to a hotel, and then looked up a boarding-place in a quiet, unpretentious street, suited to our means. We expected to use two or three hundred dollars before we got well established; and then I hoped to earn enough to keep us, with the help of the interest of the three thousand we should still have remaining, without encroaching upon the principal. I might have succeeded, perhaps,—for I was not long in procuring fancy work from two fashionable trimming stores,—if, when we had been there a little while, my mother's health had not begun seriously to decline. I think she made an effort to live on, after all the joy of her life was dead, for my sake; but she failed, and by and by she grew weary and gave up the struggle.

Of course her illness brought upon us new expenses. I would have for her the best medical advice, however she might protest against it as useless; and there were various little comforts and luxuries that I could not and would not deny myself the pleasure of procuring for her. So we were gradually going behindhand all the time. This had troubled me a little; but now that the doctor had spoken my mother's doom, the matter of dollars and cents faded into utter insignificance. There would be more than enough to take care of her to the last, and after that I could not bring myself to think. I would have shuddered at the thought of self-destruction, but I believe the prayer was in my mind, every moment in the day, that God would let me care for her till the end, and then lie down and die beside her. So I carried back the work I had from Richmond's and La Pierre's, and spent all my time with her,—my darling.

Often when I tried to talk with her, the thought how soon she would be past all hearing would rise up and choke me, and I would turn away to hide the sudden rush of tears. It was on Wednesday the doctor had told me what I must expect; and up to Saturday night I had kept it from her, trying my poor best to wear a cheerful face. That night I sat beside her in the twilight. She was on the lounge, bolstered up with pillows, and I on a low hassock, which brought my face on a level with hers. We had been silent a long time, since the last ray of sunset touched our western windows, and now the dusk had fallen so that we could see each other no longer. At last out of the shadows came her voice, clear and sweet,—

Then she put out her hand and touched my wet face.

"Do not grieve, my darling," she said,—oh, how tenderly,—"because I am going home. The only pang I feel is for you, and it will not be long before you come."

"It may be years," I said, bitterly. "I am young and strong. Oh, I wish I wasn't,—if God would only take me too, and not make me stay in this great, empty world without you!"

"I think, darling, He will send you a comforter."

"Oh, I am not so bad that I do not want His Spirit. I do believe; I do try to follow the dear Lord; but I want a human comforter,—something to see and feel,—tender lips, gentle fingers. The flesh is so weak."

"And I meant a human comforter. I believe He will send you one in His own time and way,—when you learn, perhaps, to forget yourself in helping some one still more desolate."

"As if that could be. O, mother, when you are gone there won't be in the whole wide world such a lonesome, aching heart as mine."

"People always say that, dear; always think there is no sorrow like their sorrow, until God teaches them better, either by making their own burden heavier, or by showing them how to help some one else. God grant it may be this last with you, Bessie."

"But is there no hope, mother?" I said, with a wild longing for a little of the comfort a doubt would give.

"I think none. Dr. West told you so Wednesday, did he not? and you have been trying to keep it from me,—as if I could not read it in your face, every time you looked at me."

All reserve broke down then. I was in her arms, sobbing and crying on her bosom; I that so soon would have no mother's bosom for my refuge any more for ever.

The doctor had said her life was a question of days or weeks. She lived four weeks after he told me that, and then one night she talked with me a long, long time. At last she said she was tired, and would go to sleep. Then she kissed me, as she always did, and turned her gentle face toward the wall. She awoke again in another world than ours. But by the calm blessedness of the smile on the dead face I knew that her soul had departed in peace. It was a smile that made her young and fair again, as the mother I remembered away back in my childhood.

Oh, what a desolate funeral that was! I had no friends near enough to give them any claim to be sent for, and I wanted no one. I made all the arrangements myself, and the third day I buried my dead. I remember the minister, after the funeral rites were over, stopped a moment beside the grave to speak a few words of sympathy to me, sole mourner. But I was deaf with sorrow. I made no answer, and presently he turned away. I don't know how long I stood there. After a while my driver came up, touching his hat, respectfully, and asked,—

"Would ye plaise to start soon, miss?" and mechanically I went toward the carriage, and he put me in and shut the door. So I went back to the desolate room where she had died.

Some one had been in during my absence and made it all bright and tidy, but I would rather have found it dark, and gloomy, and comfortless, as when I went away. The days which followed were sad and evil. My soul rose in revolt. I asked why I, of all others, should be so set apart by sorrow,—left so lonely and so desolate. For a whole week I had been thus mutinous. I had seen in my God no Father, but an Avenger. All the promises of love and joy were sealed from me. I passed through the very valley and shadow of death, and in its darkness the powers of evil did battle for my soul; until at last I slept, one night, and dreamed of mother, for the first time since she died. In the dream she seemed beside me, but not as of old. A spiritual beauty sat upon her face, a blessedness such as mortals never know looked from her eyes, but her voice came, low and sweet, as it used: "I think, darling, the Father will send you a comforter."

I woke refreshed, as I had not been before by any slumber. The voice of my dream lingered with me, and calmed me, as my mother's words used to. I began to have faith. I remembered how she had thought my comforter was to come. But when and where should I find some one more desolate than myself to help? At any rate, not by sitting still to nurse my woe, an idler in the vineyard. I must go to work.

I put on my deep mourning bonnet and went out. If I could get my old work from the trimming stores, I could earn enough now to take care of myself, and keep what money I had left as surety against the proverbial rainy day. I made my way first to Richmond's. As I went in I noticed a little lame girl with her crutch sitting beside the door. One sees such objects of charity often enough in New York. I doubt if this one would have attracted me but for her singular beauty. She had the fairest skin I ever saw, with large, dark eyes, and hair of a pure auburn tint. It was a face full of contrasts, and yet of the most exquisite loveliness. I noticed she attracted others as well as myself, for while I stood a few moments looking at her, no one went into the store who did not drop a few pennies in the little outstretched hand. I followed the universal example as I went in, and at my gift, as at every other, a deep blush crimsoned the sensitive little face.

I made my arrangements to resume my old employments, and then went out, and down the street to La Pierre's. When I came back, half an hour later, the child was still sitting there; and I looked at her again, wondering anew at her delicate beauty. Then a thrill of compassion warmed my heart for the poor little waif. It was a cold day in the autumn, and she was very thinly clad; sitting, poor little morsel, upon the cold stone, too lame, it seemed, to move about and warm herself, even if she wished; evidently, too, ashamed and miserable over her occupation. I went up to her and spoke to her.

"What is your name?"

"Jennie Green."

"Whose little girl are you?"

"Nobody's, ma'am."

Oh, perhaps I should not have understood the wail of sadness in those words if I, too, had not been nobody's girl.

"Have you no friends?" I asked, putting my question in a new form.

"No, ma'am. Mother died last spring, and I've had no friends since."

"But you live somewhere?"

"Oh, yes; there was a woman in the next room to mother, and she took me when mother died, and every day she sends me out like this, and she takes the money I get to pay for my keeping."

"Do you like to live with her?" I pursued, getting strangely interested.

A quick shudder of repugnance answered me before her words,—

"Oh, no, no!"

A sudden impulse moved me. I beckoned to a policeman who stood near by watching us.

"Do you know any thing of this child?" I inquired.

"Not much. She seems a quiet, well-disposed young one. A woman brings her here, a pretty rough customer, and leaves her here, and comes back after her toward night. I've seen her use her pretty hard, sometimes."

"That woman is no relation to her," I said, "only a person in the house, that kept her when her mother died,—to make money out of her, I suppose. Would it be against any law if I took her home with me, without letting any one know where she was gone, and took care of her? Could that woman claim her again?"

The policeman whistled, by which token proving himself Yankee born, and considered a moment. Then he answered, deliberately,—

"No, it ain't agin no law, as I knows of. I don't think the woman would dare to take her from you, and 'tain't likely any one would disturb you. All I'm thinking on is,—you're young, miss,—would your folks like it, and wouldn't you get tired on her?"

"I have no folks," I said, with the old sadness rising up and choking me. "Will you kindly call a carriage, and put her in?"

I had given my direction without at all consulting the child. When he was gone for the hack I went up to her and asked her if she would go home with me, and have it for her home.

"Do you mean me to leave Mrs. McGuire?" she cried, with wide eyes.

"Yes, if you want to."

"And not—not come out for money any more?"

"Not, please God, while I have strength to work for us both."

"Oh, I do want to go, I do!" she cried, wild with eagerness. And then she drew her little crutch toward her, and painfully raised herself and stood there waiting.

"Oh, can't we go now?" she asked, in an eager whisper. "It's almost time for Mrs. McGuire." Just then the carriage came up to the sidewalk, and I carried my poor little foundling home.

Yesterday was the anniversary of my dear mother's death, and I lived over again the old sorrow, tasted its bitterness anew. I laid my head on the pillow where she died, and sobbed out the passion of desolation which swept over me. And as I lay there crying I heard gentle footsteps, and then felt soft lips on my cheek, and heard a voice,—

"Oh, can't I comfort you, Miss Bessie? Can't I do any thing for you, now you've made my life all new and bright?"

And I opened my arms, and took into them my little dark-eyed, bright-haired girl, and realized that God indeed had sent me my comforter,—a comforter found, as my mother had predicted, when I forgot myself in trying to comfort one yet more desolate.

I should never have dared to act upon the impulse which led me to bring the child home, had I been less utterly alone in the world. But I have never regretted it. I found that her parents had brought her up in the fear of God, and all the rude and rough associations, which had worked their worst on her after her mother's death, had never soiled her innate purity. My care and tenderness have made of her all I hoped. Dr. West's skill has almost cured her lameness, and she walks without a crutch now, and with only the slightest suggestion of a limp. She helps me at my tasks, and for her sake I have recalled my old pencil craft, and here I foresee that the pupil is soon to surpass her teacher; and some day I fancy you may see on the walls of the academy a picture by a girl artist with brown eyes and auburn hair,—the child who was my comforter.

Cambridge: Press of John Wilson and Son.