In a dark, narrow street of the city stood a dingy tenement house. Many people lived within, and called it by the dear name of home; yet it was very different from the luxurious homes of the rich, surrounded by pleasant gardens, filled with costly pictures, and a thousand beautiful things very delightful to possess. Nor was it like the comfortable homes of the middle class, where the fire burns brightly in the polished grate, and the table is always plentifully spread. Oh, no! The people in the tenement house were all poor, from the first floor front to the attic back, which was the worst of all.

It was the rainy season, and through the roof, round the chimney, and between the cracked and loosened weather-boards, came the driving rain.

Then there was a continual opening and shutting of doors; and at the common entrance, all day long and far into the night, there was somebody always coming in, or going out, letting in the chilling blast, that rushed through the muddy halls, and into the rooms, pinching the sick and old in a pitiless way.

Altogether, it was not a pleasant place to live in; but most of the people in the tenement house had always been poor, and had learned to be content with what the day brought them, so they were not hungry. Only one in the house had known the luxury of being very rich, and she was now the poorest of them all.

Just under the roof she sat, wearily stitching upon the coarse work that must bring bread to her little child. How the rain pattered and clattered upon the roof, as the daintily-bred woman bent above her unaccustomed task, thinking over the old thoughts, that made the present more than desolate.

“It was not so once,” said the rain. “The old home, how comfortable and beautiful it was! There you were a fair lady with lily-white hands; now, you are the same, only one can not think so. There are silver threads in your hair, and your hands are too red. People say: ‘What a pity the woman with the pretty child is so poor!’ but they do not help you.”

“The old home! the old home!” echoed the sad thoughts all day long and into the still hours of the night.

In the corner of the room sat a little child, playing with a doll, made of an old apron; yet, to the child it was “the pretty Dolladine.”

She was very beautiful, with silken white hair, shimmered over with a golden luster. A little garden flower, thrown out by chance upon the common wayside, yet blossoming in her own sweet beauty, in contrast with every thing around her.

She was a real princess born, and her coarse, ragged clothes could make no difference.

The work was finished, and, though it was raining still, the mother put on her worn bonnet to take it home.

“If the sun would only shine again,” she sighed heavily, looking down into the dismal back alley; “but I must go.”

She kissed the child, saying, “Be good, darling—mamma will not be gone long.”

“I will be good, mamma,” she answered, “and Dolladine and I will catch the sunshine for you.”

“You are my only sunshine now,” said the mother, hastening away to conceal the tears that would not stay in their hiding-place.

Then the little one was left alone in the attic-room, and began, as she often did, to talk to her doll.

“Now, Dolladine,” she said, “mamma is very sad, and sick, I fear, and you and I must make sunshine for her; but how shall we do it? that is the question.

“Don’t you remember, Dolladine, one day the pretty lady said my hair was beaming sunshine? We must shake it out for poor mamma—we must shake it out;” and the little girl began jumping around the room, shaking her curls, and singing:—

Just then she saw the sunbeams dancing into the room. The rain was over, and, on the roof of the next house, a washerwoman was hanging out her clothes, which were blowing about in the wind, casting gleams of light and shadow upon the little attic window, so that the sunshine went flitting about like the will-o’-the-wisp, for the shadow was always chasing it.

The child was delighted. “Do you see it, Dolladine,” she said—“the glorious sunshine which the loving God gives us? Now, we must catch it for mamma.”

She took the doll in her arms, and gave chase to the dancing phantom. But it was no use; just as her little hand was ready to grasp it, it flew away.

“You don’t help me enough, Dolladine,” said the child, her little eyes filling with tears.

Just then, a great double-knock came at the door, and, before she could answer it, in walked a little old man, with a very wrinkled face and long white beard; a big hat almost covered his face, so that the upper part was all in shadow.

“What are you doing, little chick?” he said, pleasantly; “and where is the mother?”

“Mamma has gone to carry home the work,” answered the child, timidly; “and Dolladine and I have been making sunshine for her. But, see! it flies away!” and again she tried to catch the dancing beams.

“It often does from older and wiser hands than yours; but how did you make it, fairy?” asked the old man, laughing.

“God put it in my hair, and I shook it out for dear mamma, who is sick, and so tired of the dark days,” replied the little one, again shaking her pretty curls, that were luminous with beauty.“I see!” said the old man. “Now, I am a great magician, and can help you;” and he sang, with a clear, ringing voice:—

Just at that moment the washerwoman took down a big sheet, and the little room was flooded with warm, glowing sunshine.

“Oh! it is glorious, is it not, Dolladine?” exclaimed the child, clapping her hands, and dancing about with pleasure. “Mamma will be so happy, and so will Dolladine and I.”

“Remember,” said the old magician, “that all good comes from the loving God, who has blessed you, and made you the sunshine child. You can make the mother and every one very happy, so long as you keep God’s sunshine in your heart; but if you forget the blessed Christ, it will fly away, and will not be the warm, beautiful light of God’s love, but only the dancing sunshine that always escapes your grasp. And then, how sad! you would change to the little stormy-weather child, which would be worse than the darkest winter’s day to the dear mother.”

“Oh! no, no! I will never forget to bless the good God. It is so delightful to make mamma and every one happy.”

“This box,” said the old man, “is full of sunshine; I will give it you for the mother.”

“Let me kiss you, dear magician,” said the child, gently; “I always love anybody who is kind to poor mamma.”

The old man took the little one in his arms, and kissed her fondly, saying, “God bless you, darling; God bless you!” Then he went away, to be her life-long friend.

“I am so happy, I can not keep still, Dolladine,” said the child; and she danced about till the mother came in, weary and worn. “Oh! mamma,” said she, running up and kissing her, “we shall always be happy now, in God’s glorious sunshine, and the old magician gave me this box, full of it, for you, mamma.”

It was some time before the mother could understand all; but when she opened the box, sure enough, it was full of sunshine. There was the missing deed, that restored to her her own—the dear old home, and all her great wealth.

Again she became the fair lady with the lily-white hands; but her greatest joy was in the warm, genial sunshine her good little daughter made. From a child she grew up to be a loving, beautiful, and pure woman. But she never forgot the good God, and, all her life, remained the mother’s sunshine child.