"Well," said Mrs. Allen to her husband, after they had gone upstairs, "I hope you're satisfied and have had enough of Fannie's visiting around at tenement houses. Democratic ideas are all right enough, theoretically, but I think it is impossible for people to dwell long in poverty without losing refinement."

"Some kinds of poverty, yes; and some kinds of people, yes. That comfort and luxury are refining in their influence goes without saying; but just as there are some people whom all the wealth in the world could never raise above vulgarity, so there are others whom poverty could never degrade. And the lady and her little girl whom Fannie has visited to-night are of this type. They are the kind of people who will have the refinements of life even at the expense of some of its comforts."

"It seems to me that is queer talk. How can people have refinements without comforts?"

"Had you been at Mrs. Alroy's to-night, I think you would understand how that could be. And as for the rest," Mr. Allen added dryly, "Mrs. Alroy is one of the Van Ortons of New York."

"The Van Ortons of New York!" and Mrs. Allen dropped into her chair in astonishment, for the Van Ortons were people whom she was glad to visit. "How do you know?"

"Her resemblance to her brother puzzled me, and, wondering where I could have met her, I asked her maiden name."

"Why, I must call upon her soon."

"I think you'd better not—"

"Who's the aristocrat now, I wonder!"

"—because," he added, as if he had not heard the interruption, "she would consider it an intrusion. Her pride has been made as hard and cold as ice by her misfortunes, and I'm afraid nothing will ever melt it."

This was another new idea to Mrs. Allen. It seemed as if new things, starting with the little folks, were destined to be contagious. That a woman who lived in three small rooms and who supported herself and her daughter by selling goods across a counter, should resent a visit from a person so well known as herself, was somewhat startling to the lady.

"Well," she said impatiently, "what are you and your philanthropy going to do about it?"

"I think it is a case which my philanthropy, as you choose to call it, cannot reach. I know that her people would gladly have her come home, and there is no reason why they should be ashamed of either her or her daughter; but she manages to keep them in complete ignorance of her circumstances, and also, I strongly suspect, of her whereabouts."

"Why don't you write to them?"

"She has forbidden it, and in such a way as to make me feel that it would be a breach of honor to disregard her wishes. No, nothing can be done at present. But she is as frail as a reed, and her body, in spite of her will power, will break down under the pressure, and then——"

"Well?"

"Then she will die—that is all."

It seems hard, at first thought, to bring the sorrows of older people—and sorrows, too, for which, as the words of Mr. Allen would indicate the above to be, there seems no earthly cure—into a book for girls; but perhaps it is, after all, a truer kindness to let them find out, while there is yet time, that life is a thing of earnest and real import, and that the impossible ideas of a romantic world where a few sorrows come simply as contrast, and then vanish forever, leaving the heroes and heroines surrounded by an everlasting halo of happiness and prosperity—which so many of the lighter novels teach—are more injurious than any statistics will ever show. They give views of life which, if followed out, as in the case of Constance Van Orton, are apt to end in sorrow and despair.

But the saddest life must have some joy in it, and Mrs. Alroy probably had many happy hours, when she enjoyed the sunshine, or, in more sober moods, the gentle patter of the rain on the roof, her books (to which the poorest of those who live in our large cities can have access through the public libraries), and, above all, the companionship of her daughter, who was really that most remarkable of characters, a child good, and even pious, without priggishness or the slightest taint of affectation.

And when all is thought and felt and suffered, above earth's joys and woes and hopes and dark despair is God, the eternal Good, and

And so the days rolled on and brought the anniversary of Christ's suffering and death and resurrection. The Burton family kept Easter with great rejoicing. They exchanged presents of pots of flowers, ferns and Easter lilies, mignonette and roses, which made the house fragrant and beautiful. The children received from their parents and friends at a distance Easter cards; and colored eggs, in which Ralph delighted, were not forgotten.

Mrs. Burton and Winnie, also, on the day previous, did their share toward decorating the church they attended. There was always a big pyramid of bouquets on the pulpit stand, which were taken down after service and distributed to the children of the Sunday-school. It was a great treat to the children to go to church on this day and join in the responsive service and hear the joyful anthems. This Easter Day was no exception to previous ones, in point of joy and thanksgiving.

There were some little extra surprises at the Burton home, among them being a panel of Easter lilies and maidenhair fern, painted in oil for Mrs. Burton by her sister Kitty; and from the same source Winnie received a smaller one of lilies-of-the-valley and wild violets, with the motto below: "Take my yoke upon you, and learn of me; for I am meek and lowly in heart: and ye shall find rest unto your souls." In the afternoon they held a service of their own in the sitting-room. Mrs. Burton and Aunt Kitty sang Abt's duet, "Easter Day," and they had two or three fine quartettes.

Norah had not been forgotten, either, in the distribution of the flowers, or in an invitation to join the family circle in the afternoon. She was anxious to do something in return, and so had prepared another surprise which greeted them at tea-time. On each plate lay an egg, which, when examined, was found to be a wooden candy-box, full of home-made candies. All were pleased, even to grandma and Mr. Burton, and Norah's face shone with delight when she saw that her gifts were appreciated.

It had been a long day for Ralph, however, and Winnie and Jack stayed at home with him while the other members of the family went to evening service. The child was tired and restless, yet too much excited to be sleepy, and was very unwilling to go to bed when the usual hour arrived. Winnie was quite weary, too, but she dared not allow herself to be impatient on a day like this, so she told him Bible stories and sang to him, and at last the heavy eyelids closed, and she was at liberty to go downstairs with her book.

This time it was "Pilgrim's Progress," which she was reading for about the dozenth time. She dropped, with a sense of luxury, into the same big chair in which we have seen her on a former occasion. Jack also had an interesting book, and they read on in perfect silence for half an hour, when suddenly they heard a crash, and then Ralph's voice in a frightened cry.

Dropping their books, they ran upstairs. Jack turned up the gas, and they found that poor little Ralph had rolled out of bed, and was lying stretched on the floor, but far more frightened than hurt. He said he had had bad dreams, and they could not quiet him nor induce him to go back to bed. At last Jack wrapped him up in a shawl, and Winnie sat down in the big chair and took the frightened child in her arms.

Jack settled himself again with his book and forgot all about them both, until his father and mother came home and found them asleep. Mrs. Burton's face showed disapproval until Jack explained the circumstances, and she could then enjoy the pretty picture they made, without feeling a regret that it was the result of disobedience.

Jack took Ralph in his arms and once more carried him, still sleeping soundly, upstairs. They did not waken Winnie until it was time for them all to go to bed, when she was gently roused by her mother. She looked around in bewilderment, and it was some time before she could realize what had happened.